Page 29 of A Scot's Pride
This exile was not the end of the world.
Except Riley wept on her bed in the room they shared in this drafty country house, a week’s ride from London, as if they’d been banished to the very edge of the earth. It felt like that sometimes. More often than not, Freya had been glad for that, liking the distance away from the rules and stuck-up people whose circles they were forced to spin about in. That wasn’t how it was here. They could relax and enjoy their lives. Read and dance and walk. Breathe easier.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come down with me? We can reenact a play. Or write one.” Freya offered one of their favorite pastimes, but Riley shook her head.
“I can’t imagine finding enjoyment in anything ever again.”
Freya wished she could say something to make her sister feel better. But the truth was she was at a loss for words, and anything she might say would likely upset Riley more.
Freya left the bedroom she shared with Riley to find Molly reading quietly in the corner of the sitting room, Leila writing letters and Grace playing the pianoforte. Mama, like Riley, was up in her bed sobbing, no doubt because her daughters had no prospects whatsoever, or so she’d repeatedly told them in the carriage on their journey here.
Papa had been forced to cut the season short, an embarrassment for them all when it became known that he could no longer afford to keep the house running in Mayfair. They’d let it out to some other lord—who knew who—and made their escape by saying Mama needed the coastal air for an ague, which was sort of true. Her ague was only manifesting in the physical since her emotional state was so distraught.
Their father had thoroughly had it with their mother, which only made things worse, and they sniped at each other whenever they were in each other’s company. Which had all of the sisters on edge. As if their house wasn’t splintered enough. Papa had always been the calm one, and now he had reverted into someone they barely recognized.
Freya wondered if Leila gained some satisfaction from the crumbling of her parents’ already tenuous relationship. She was too interested in their words and often scribbled them down as if to remember one particular insult over another. Freya would need to check the outgoing post to make sure Leila wasn’t spreading gossip about their family to her friends back in London, which Freya wouldn’t put past her.
“Freya.” Papa stood in the doorway to their tiny drawing room—thankfully not as dusty as Mama had sworn it would be, given it had been so long since they’d been to their northern house.
“Yes, Papa?” Freya stood, taking in the exhausted look on her father’s face.
“Your cousin has written.”
Her sisters perked up, and Freya was glad that Riley wasn’t present because now that Lord Ashbury was not in the picture—an unfortunate side effect of their abrupt removal from London—it would be she who was first on Cousin Arthur’s list of brides.
Freya walked toward her father, hoping he’d take the hint and leave the room so her sisters didn’t hear the rest of what he was going to say, but he must have sensed that and, for some reason, needed them all to know. Perhaps to prepare them. He’d coddled them before, keeping them in the dark about their situation, and doing so had been a major blow to Leila and Grace, though Molly didn’t seem to care at all. Sunderland was like her dream.
“Originally, Cousin Arthur had been planning to visit us in Mayfair. But since our plans had to change so suddenly, he has decided to visit us here, which is closer to his residence. He’ll be staying for at least a week. I wanted to make you aware.” He glanced at her younger sisters, who seemed confused and excited all at the same time, fidgeting but not saying much.
Freya swallowed the questions she had because one in particular needed attention first. “Does Mama know?”
Papa shook his head. “I hoped you would tell her, my dear. She’ll need to organize some forms of entertainment for your cousin. Arrange the menu and all that.”
Freya nodded, slightly resentful that telling her mother had fallen onto her shoulders. Then again, perhaps if her mother knew that Arthur intended to marry one of them, she might be shaken out of her stupor enough to see about accepting some invitations to some of their neighbors’ houses which she’d thus far declined. And there had to be a country dance happening soon.
And then her father was abruptly gone, ambling down the hall to his study, where he seemed to have taken up residence. She wouldn’t be surprised if he were sleeping in there too.
“Is it just me, or does Papa seem…older somehow?” Leila asked, standing beside Freya, her head cocked as she watched the hallway where he’d disappeared.
“He does.” Freya nodded, feeling a sudden sadness cast upon her. Papa appeared to have aged years in the past few weeks.
“I’ll go tell Mama. You go share with Riley.” Before Freya had a chance to argue with her sister, Leila skipped from the room.
No doubt Leila wanted to take the opportunity to push her case, given she wasn’t old enough to be presented into society. But she was going to be eighteen soon. If they weren’t in London, surely their mother would be more likely to bend the rules for a country dance or two than she would have been for a ball.
Freya was glad for her sister’s need to inform their mother first because it saved her the duty. That suited Freya fine because she would rather speak to Riley about their impending boring cousin. They’d not seen him since they were children, and she barely remembered anything other than his judgmental face and serious demeanor. There’d been a lot of talk of the scriptures, and they weren’t following them as they should. The lad hadn’t liked anything that the other children had.
No games of tag, no make-believe, and he’d stood up during their play and called them all sinners before storming from the room. A shudder passed through Freya. Perhaps he was coming back to tell them their fates were sealed, and he didn’t plan to help. That he’d rained down judgment on them years ago, and they were to be punished for their wayward wicked minds.
She’d only made it halfway up the stairs before there was a knock at the front door of the house, echoing through the silence. Curious to see who it was, she waited until their housemaid answered, presuming it would be a neighbor. Since they’d been home, there’d been plenty of friendly visits, dropping gifts of flowers, tea, cakes and eggs in exchange for news and gossip.
Perhaps this time, it would be a someone with an invitation that might improve Riley’s mood, but the voices below weren’t from any of the surrounding neighbors.
They were from two very familiar male tones they’d left behind in London.
What the devil was Lovat doing here? Ashbury, of course, was welcome, but the last interaction she’d had with Lovat had been the week before at the ball, and it had been utterly humiliating. Being forced into the country had been a reprieve since she’d dreaded seeing him at so many more social functions.
Freya did not descend. She lifted her skirts and rushed up the stairs, taking them two at a time to the bedroom she shared with Riley. She banged through the door and locked it behind her, pressing her palms and spine to the painted wood.
