The Laird Takes a Bride(92)

“No—no, you misunderstand me,” he answered quickly. “I’m discarding them. They are, perhaps, a trifle too—er—vivid for one of my age. What may have suited me most excellently in the past might not be quite so—ah—comme il faut. I thought—well, I thought they might find new life as wee dresses for the dolls you make.”

“Oh, Duff, how very kind of you!” exclaimed Isobel, touched. “And the fabric will make the most delightful little gowns. Thank you so much!” She smiled at him, eyes shining with gratitude.

Duff opened his mouth to reply, but found himself at a loss for words. It had been a long time since a lady had looked at him in that way. Maybe never.

A servant broke the spell, by offering to take away his empty plate. “Oh—um—yes. I thank you,” said Duff, and was filled with a surprising regret when Isobel rose to her feet, saying:

“Oh dear! We’re keeping the servants from their work, I’m afraid.” She ran a caressing hand over the smooth, bright material of a gaudy yellow waistcoat. “How lovely. Well! Thank you again! So considerate of you! Good day to you, Duff.”

“And to you, Isobel. I trust I’ll see you at nuncheon?”

“Yes,” she said, a little breathlessly, her face pink, and thus they went their separate ways, Isobel with her basket to the Little Drawing-room, Duff to the library where he intended to pore over the latest racing journal but instead stood at the window, thoughtfully puffing on his pipe in a state of pleasant—very pleasant—abstraction.





Chapter 14




By late afternoon Fiona had accomplished all the tasks on her list, moving through them capably and efficiently, one after the other. So what if she felt like a machine? At least she might felicitate herself on disguising that fact reasonably well.

Or so she thought.

She was in the kitchen garden, clad in an old muslin gown, on her knees among the mint, fennel, basil, and dill. For quite some time now she had been trimming, watering, uprooting weeds, picking off snails. Cook, surprised and solicitous, had more than once sent servants out to help, but Fiona had waved them away. In particular, there were several prickly spear-thistle plants which had recently sprung up and she was determined to eradicate them. A large bushy heap had piled up in her basket when, abruptly, a shadow fell upon her. Quickly Fiona looked up.

But it was Monty.

No “but,” she corrected herself.

It was Monty.

“Madam,” he said in his gruff way, “that’s enough for today.”

Fiona looked up at him and with a grimy palm wiped the sweat from her forehead. “I’ve more thistles to pull up. It won’t take but an hour or so.”

“Madam,” he said, “your hands.”

She glanced at them. Not only were they filthy, but they were scratched and bleeding in several places. “Oh,” she said, feeling oddly embarrassed, as if she’d been caught out in some way. “It’s nothing. Is there something you need?”

“I thought you might wish to look at the beehives with me.”

“Not today. Thank you.”

“Very well.”

But he continued standing there, looking at her from underneath craggy eyebrows.

Finally she said: “What is it, Monty?”

“Only the bees, madam.”

“Perhaps another time. Tomorrow, or the next day. Or next week.”

“Aye, madam,” he answered, stolidly, and left her. To her prickly spear thistles and her damaged hands.

So relentlessly did Fiona attack the thistles that by the time she’d bathed and changed for dinner, she was almost late. She smiled impartially at Alasdair, Isobel, Duff, and the servants ready to begin serving the meal. It wasn’t so bad, she thought, as she lifted a spoonful of an exquisitely clear beef consommé. It wasn’t so bad living on this plane of existence. Today, for example, had gone by fairly quickly. Why, the days and the months and the years would simply fly by. There was no excuse for the secret sadness that seemed to pervade every inch of her and make her feel as if the sheer weight of it would cause the floor to collapse beneath her. Thank goodness for one’s pride.

A few spoonfuls of the consommé, she found, was enough. Her stomach felt full of the sadness. She managed a bite of the glazed ham, a nibble of the savory jelly, half of an asparagus toast. None of it tasted particularly good, either. After she had rejected the pork cutlets, a duck ragout, the cauliflower with a creamy velouté sauce, the apple loaf, and a lemon soufflé, she gradually became aware of the fact that she was being stared at by her tablemates.

She looked back at them. Duff and Isobel, she noticed without any particular interest, shared a smiling conspiratorial glance. Alasdair was somber.