Page 28 of The Last Debutante
There was nothing to be done but follow this man up, with Robbie and her battered trunk trailing behind her. As they ascended, the stairwell narrowed; the walls were damp and cool. The only light came from narrow rectangular windows. She was reminded of the stories Mamie used to tell her when she was a child, of ghosts who would appear in dark and narrow hallways when there was no possibility that the heroine might escape.
They came to a thick wooden door. The bushy-browed man opened it and walked inside.
The room was surprisingly and pleasingly bright, far nicer than anything Daria had imagined or even hoped for. Three small windows of mullioned glass curved around on one wall, and she realized that they were in one of the four anchoring towers. The man opened one of the windows and a cool breeze swept in, ruffling the embroidered canopy over the bed. The smell of summer came with it—freshly mowed hay, the scent of coming rain. There was a cold hearth, a pair of rugs, and a small table with two chairs, as well as a pair of doors on either side of the room that led, she guessed, to dressing and bathing rooms. Against the wall stood a basin and a vanity—everything a woman might need. Daria was so relieved, she wanted to collapse facedown onto the bed and sob.
Robbie and another man entered behind her carrying her trunk, scraping it against the door frame as they maneuvered it inside. They deposited the trunk in the middle of the room, which Bushy Brows did not care for, as he spoke sharply to them. Robbie apparently didn’t care for his tone, and they exchanged a few heated words before Robbie and his companion picked the trunk up once more and placed it next to the vanity, then huffed out of the room.
That left Daria alone with Bushy Brows.
“A lass comes,” he said cryptically.
“A lass?” she tried, but he apparently wanted no discussion; he was already walking out of the room.
When he’d gone, Daria whirled around, fell to her knees before her trunk, and opened it.
The contents had been jostled and tossed about in their journey to the ends of the earth, but everything was there and intact. Even her bottles of perfume were still in the wooden box where she’d packed them. Daria began to sort through her clothing—silks and fine muslins that seemed almost frivolous in these hills—shaking them out, frowning at the deep wrinkles that had set into the fabrics after a fortnight in the trunk. They smelled a bit musty, a bit briny, and, she thought with a pang of homesickness, a bit like England.
She had most of the contents spread across the bed when a girl appeared at the threshold. She was a tiny thing and eyed Daria suspiciously, toying with the end of her black braid. Her vest, laced up over a white lawn shirt, looked worn, and her black skirt too short—the tops of her boots were showing. She wore a lace cap that reminded Daria of the old women in Hadley Green who refused to acknowledge that caps had gone out of fashion at the turn of the century.
The girl looked as if she were no more than sixteen or seventeen years of age. She did not speak, but took Daria in, from head to foot.
“Ah... good afternoon,” Daria said uncertainly. “Do you speak English?”
The girl gave her a slight roll of her eyes. “Aye.”
Daria folded her arms across her body, feeling rather exposed. “Have you a name?”
“Aye, everyone has a name. Bethia Campbell.”
Good Lord, was everyone in Scotland a bloody Campbell? “Are you... have you been sent to attend me?” Daria asked. Surely she’d not been sent to stare so disdainfully at her as she was now.
Bethia snorted and folded her arms across her small, thin body. “Aye,obviously I have.”
“It’s not entirely obvious,” Daria muttered. She was appalled; an English maid would never act like this. Still, Daria was grateful for any help. “Would it be possible to have a bath drawn?”
“Course,” Bethia said. “Everything is possible at Dundavie.”
Noteverythingwas possible at Dundavie; in particular, her freedom did not seem possible at present.
Bethia yanked on a bellpull three times. She moved to the sideboard and removed the top from a crystal decanter filled with amber liquid.
“What is that?” Daria asked.
“Barley-bree.”
“Barley-bree?”
“Aye. To soothe,” Bethia added tersely.
Daria picked up the decanter and sniffed. Whisky.
“It’s made at Dundavie,” Bethia said, a hint of pride in her voice.
“I might develop a taste for it,” Daria said wryly. She looked at Bethia. The two of them stood there awkwardly a moment. “I’d like these gowns to be hung,” Daria suggested, gesturing to her gowns on the bed.
“Then hang them,” Bethia said.
Daria blinked with surprise. “I thought you were sent to attend me.”
