Page 5 of The Nabob's Designing Daughter
“Yes, Father.” Ann turned her gaze back to the coach window, lest he see the small smile she was fighting. This December’s weather had been mild, relatively speaking, the occasional snow melting under the regular rain showers. Outside, the weathered landscape rolled toward mist-covered hills and her insides tingled with anticipation. Upon his return, her father had traveled the length and breadth of Scotland and finally acquired Glenthistle.
Despite the lack of a bookstore, and well-stocked shops in the village of Kinmarty despite the lack of family, and despite that she had to pursue her interest in herbs and medicinals on the sly, she loved the Highlands, and she’d found friends here. She hated the poverty though, and did all she could, whenever she could, to alleviate it.
She pressed her gloved hand to the window and leaned forward to count the few sheep in the field and wave to the child tending them. The boy, Rolly Gillespie, had survived a bad fever the spring before, and it cheered her to see him so well.
Father angled his head to peer out and grunted.
She held her breath for a reprimand:One did not need to acknowledge a crofter’s child. As if father had not once been one of those himself.
“That’s Darleton’s land,” Father said. “I’ve a notion to offer to buy the title if they ever find the heir.”
The last Baron Darleton had died only months before.
“I’ll tear down that crumbling Mounth Tower and send the crofters packing. Put all the land to sheep. Might build a fishing lodge, though. Best angling in the Highlands there, and ’twill all be mine.” His gaze pinned her. “Now that’s something to offer in the marriage settlements. Noblemen like their sport.”
She bit her lip and turned her gaze back to the window. Perhaps if Darleton had opened his land to rich English anglers, his people wouldn’t have suffered so much. He’d been a crotchety old recluse, or so everyone said. She’d called on him after seeing to the sick child, and he’d had his servant refuse to admit her. ’Twas shameful, his lack of care for his people, and they all hoped for better from the heir, whomever that might be.
But her father as Darleton? She’d learned soon enough that he could be heartless and cruel, an absolute bully when his will was openly challenged. She’d thought his sole focus was on having his daughter marry well, but buying the Darleton barony?
Perhaps she could find a way to squash his ambition there. “Mayhap the heir will be a single young man of good fortune looking for a wife,” she said.One who might be persuaded to do right by his tenants.
Father grunted. “He’ll need every penny of that good fortune. No, daughter, we must look higher to the noblemen at hand. Now, you will avoid the influence of Mrs. MacDonal, should she return from Edinburgh, which I’ve heard is in doubt, especially with the weather likely to turn foul.” He paused and pressed his lips together. “Far better to attach yourself to the duchess during our stay.”
She bit back a smile and smoothed the blue wool of her cloak. Father’s regard for the duchess was only higher by comparison to the lady’s cousin, Mrs. MacDonal.
“Given that the duchess will soon be entering her confinement,” she said, struggling to keep her tone earnest, “ought we not to have asked my aunt from Edinburgh along as chaperone? I’m sure the duchess would welcome her.”
A low grumble rolled from the opposite bench. “Miss Livingston ought to have accompanied us.”
Miss Livingston was the well-bred but impoverished English woman her father had hired to transform his daughter into a proper lady. A thin mournful spinster approaching her fortieth year, granddaughter of an earl, the lady had only succumbed to her current role when her last supporting relative passed away and she needed a home. Ann saw her misery but had not been able to draw her out.
“A merchant’s widow is not high enough for this crowd. No, daughter. Should any man importune you, only make sure it is one of the single men of high station and we shall have you wed by Hogmanay.”
Her father had established himself as a distinguished member of the local gentry and a justice of the peace, a huge social leap for a poor crofter’s son.
Now, he aimed to move higher. Last year he’d had hopes of making Ann a duchess.Thathadn’t worked out, but her father hadn’t given up hope of a title for his only child.
She swallowed a bubble of defiance that threatened to spill over into a chuckle. It wouldn’t do to appear amused. Given all the rows they’d had on the subject, any display of humor on her part would raise his suspicions.
He didn’t need to know she wouldn’t be the only single young lady attending this December house party of their near neighbors, the Duke and Duchess of Kinmarty. He didn’t need to know that Mrs. MacDonal, the duchess’s cousin, would most certainly be there as well. The lady had traveled to and from India—no mere Highland winter would keep her away. Even now, she might be on the road behind them, bringing along Ann’s cousin, Edme.
As for his goal that she be wedded by Hogmanay… A pox on titles and high station; a reasonably handsome man who shared her interests would do, and he must respect her, and how wonderful it would be to be loved.
Ann turned back to the window, remembering that day in the garden with Errol. Despite the flash of raw interest she’d seen in his eyes, and heavens, the kiss, she knew he’d never court her. He didn’t respect her, he’d never love her, and when he learned the truth, he might just roar at her worse than Father did when she challenged him.
Mr. Henderson might have already told Errol thewhat, but he’d promised to let her be the one to tell him thewho.
If the mouse could but summon some bravery to tell him.
Dr. Errol Robillardpeered out the window of Mrs. Penelope MacDonal’s well-appointed carriage, paying scant heed to the conversation of his companions, especially the excited chatter of Edme Beecham.
This first venture north to the Highlands was proving to be as tiring as his recent travels to and from London, and the whole bloody matter was making him feel low.
Not that he would let anyone know. He had a reputation for smooth bonhomie to maintain. And, in fact, it was seldom that his spirits felt battered. He knew himself and his abilities, had always found the seed of opportunity in every situation, and had experienced only a few occasions when his sense of—well, confidence—had been shaken. The deaths of his parents and his benefactor. This unexpected yank to the outer reaches of nowhere, away from his destiny—a prestigious and prosperous London practice where he could pursue his goal of making money while doing good.
But it was temporary, not the death of his dreams at all, but in fact an enhancement, providing all went well. And it must. He wasn’t inclined to be gloomy. Fate, and his hard-won medical skills, would carry him through.
Yet the distant hills sparkling with patches of melting snow, the long stretches of scrubby land, and the crackling brooks they passed did little to cheer him. Leaving the close-packed, unsanitary congestion of London and his home, Edinburgh for a place of wider spaces might raise another man’s spirits. But he knew he’d find, poverty, poorer hygiene, and earlier winter here. Famine, fevers and influenzas were regular visitors to the Highlands as well. One didn’t have to be a graduate of the University of Edinburgh Medical School to know that. His mother’s untimely death had proved it.
