The Highlander's Yuletide Love (7 page)

Several days
later, Sophy rose to the sound of raindrops beating on her windows, and the
tapping of branches against the roof and walls as the wind blew wildly. Knowing
she would not be able to go outside to paint, she made no effort to rise early
or hurry downstairs. When Sophy finally made her way to the breakfast room, she
found her brother and stepmother, almost done with their repast, sitting over
their cups of coffee and talking.

“Aren’t you the
lazy one,” Douglas said derisively as she entered.

Sophy eyed him
severely. “If you are so industrious, why aren’t you out on the Dargenwater
already? You can fish in the rain, but I cannot paint.”

“Angling is
exactly what I plan to do today. But surely I’m allowed to eat breakfast first?”

“Well, if you
aren’t even finished with breakfast, I fail to see why you should accuse me of
indolence. It’s not as though there is a trout you caught this morning sitting
on the table poached in cream.”

“At least we can
eat the fruits of my labors!”

“That will be
quite enough,” the countess broke in. “Let us have some civil conversation if
you please.”

Sophy and
Douglas subsided, and there was silence for a few minutes as Sophy filled her
plate with bread and fruit.

Harriet, having
worked through her little pile of letters and invitations, looked up. “I wonder
when we will see dear Isobel? She wrote me last week to say that she and Lord
Exencour were expecting to leave London very soon. I have been looking for a
message saying they arrived for the last two days!”

“I will have
some company for my fishing, then,” said Douglas, delighted. “Do you suppose
Ranulf is an angler?”

“I’m sure he is,”
Sophy replied sardonically. “He is doubtless the finest fisherman in all of
Scotland. He has no need of a rod, as the fish leap into his arms at the mere
sight of him.”

“You’re a sight
too pert for your own good,” said Douglas. “I like Ranulf.”

“As do we all,”
said Harriet brightly. “Sophy is merely funning. I’m sure that Isobel will be
very happy if you keep Francis and Colonel Stirling occupied so that she may
pay full attention to her excavations. And, Sophy dear, she will surely be so
pleased if you spend some time sketching the ruins again, to document the
progress of her digging.”

“Of course I
will. In addition to helping her, I enjoy the opportunity to sketch the men at
their work. It is a chance to practice my figure drawing,” Sophia responded.

 “Pooh,” said
Douglas. “Digging up old buildings and sketching workmen. I’m going to visit
the stables.” He pushed himself away from the table and headed out of the room.
Harriet, having also finished her meal, rose, murmuring something about
speaking to cook about dinner. She paused as she passed Sophy and looked out
the window at the dreary day.

“Not a day for
painting, I fear,” she said.

“No, not at all.
But I will amuse myself reading, and perhaps I will write to Lady Eynsford and
see if she intends to visit Isobel at Dargenwater Cottage again this summer.”

“Practice the
pianoforte a bit as well, my love,” her stepmother replied. “You play
beautifully, and a rainy day is well suited to such endeavors.”

“Am I so lazy
that I require reminding?” Sophy asked.

“Oh, I suppose
not, but I know that you have so many other activities to pursue,” Harriet
said.

Sophy finished
her chocolate, and stood up. “Very well,” she said with a dramatic air. “I will
go up to the Long Gallery and practice my music immediately.” A little smile
accompanied her long-suffering expression, and it was so comical that Harriet
had to laugh.

“You will be
glad when you are pressed to play for the neighbors some evening. Besides, I
know very well how much you enjoy the Long Gallery. How many rainy mornings
have I found you there, examining a portrait to see how the painter captured
the glint in someone’s eyes, or the lace on a gown? Now run along.”

Sophy drifted
out of the breakfast room, and through the Great Hall, pausing to enjoy the
sight of the hammerbeam ceiling that arched far over her head and the vast
chimney that rose above the cavernous fireplace, with its carving of the hart’s
head erased, chained and collared, the main symbol of her family’s coat of
arms. Her eye slid over the ancient weapons of her forefathers adorning the
walls as a tapestry woven in brilliant colors caught her attention, and then
she paused to contemplate of a painting of a stag at bay, before she shook her
head and dashed up the stairs to the Long Gallery.

Harriet
had been correct in saying that Sophia loved the Long Gallery. It contained not
only a collection of paintings of Learmouth ancestors stretching back
centuries, but also the acquisitions her forefathers had made while on the
Grand Tour in more recent decades. The pianoforte was located near the
middle of the room, and she walked slowly towards it, stopping to
gaze at a Canaletto that a long gone Learmouth had brought from
Venice, as well as a portrait of her grandfather painted by Reynolds. Eventually
she seated herself at the pianoforte, and flipped desultorily through the
music open on it, without feeling inspired by either Bach’s etudes or Handel’s
sonatas.

She eventually
decided on the Bach, but could not settle to her practice. After jangling the
keys as well as her nerves for a quarter of an hour, Sophy gave
up, jumping up from the bench and striding away down the long
room, seeking she knew not what. Eventually she found herself coming to a
halt in front of Sir William Beechey’s portrait of her
mother. 

A winsome blonde
beauty looked down from the wall at her, captured in what appeared to be a
moment of introspective happiness. She was seated, wearing a pale blue gown in
the Grecian style that had been so popular at the turn of the
century, with a gorgeous silk shawl draped over her arms. Pearls glowed
around her neck and at her ears, and a diadem of golden leaves
interspersed with pearls kept her classically dressed curls in order. A large,
very furry, white Persian cat nestled in her lap, and her
long slim fingers rested at its neck, as though she had only that moment
finished petting its head. She looked out at the world with a gentle little
smile, and an expression of contentment and good humor. 

Sophy stared at
the painting, seeking to find something of herself in her mother’s face. Her
own hair was dark, like her father’s, not angelically fair, but she knew her
eyes were the same as her mother’s, a bright cornflower blue. She did not have
the same retroussé nose as the late countess, but she could see that she had
inherited her hands, with their elegant white fingers and oval nails. She took
a step closer, willing herself to see more in the painting, and felt
a wave of warmth and peace flow through her, almost as though the
happiness that shone out of the painting was transmitting itself to her.

“I wonder what you
would think of me?” she whispered. “Did you have a passion that no one knows about?
Or would you also think me foolish not to marry now, while I have the chance, and
not waste my youth pursuing a nonsensical wish?”

Her mother smiled
down at Sophy silently, and she shook her head, frustrated. “I
know you loved Papa—at least I am always told you did—and that you loved me as
well. I wish I could remember you more clearly. I think perhaps I recall
the sound of your voice, and the scent you always wore, but maybe those are
just tricks of my memory. I love Harriet, truly I do, but sometimes I wish
you were here to talk to. What would you think of my ambition? Would you
encourage me?”

Sophy continued
to gaze at her mother’s image, but although she felt a sense of peace, there
were no answers to her questions. She stood a few more minutes, willing the
painting to give up an answer, but it did not. Finally, she broke into a
reluctant smile at her own ridiculousness and turned away, wandering over to
one of the tall windows that overlooked the front of the castle. She noted that
the clouds were breaking up, and that a bit of pale sunlight was peeping
through them, casting a watery light on the graveled road leading to the
door. As she watched, a barouche came into view, driven by a smartly dressed
coachman. A very elegant lady sat in the back, the ostrich plumes on her bonnet
nodding in the breeze.

“Isobel!” she
exclaimed, and ran from the gallery, thoughts of her mother forgotten.

Dearest Philippa,

You will forgive me, I hope, for being so
remiss in writing to you! We have been in Scotland some weeks now, and I am so
pleased to be settled here again. Euan is happiest here, in his home, with his
people around him, and, while you know I enjoy our time in London, each day
here at Glencairn is something to be treasured. The children thrive as well; Douglas
is delighted to be able to fish, and often takes his little brother with him,
and Sophy does nothing but paint each day, which seems to bring her great
delight, though I know I should find it tedious. I have always enjoyed my
watercolors, as you well know, but she appears able to devote herself to painting
day in and day out. I should die of boredom, but she seems very happy.

The Exencours arrived some days ago, and
have brought with them Colonel Stirling, who you know is a great favorite of
mine. He and Exencour come to Glencairn most days, which is delightful.
Douglas, Euan, and I spend a great deal of time with them, and I think it a
great pity that Sophy should miss their company. But she is always somewhere
with her paints, or helping Isobel at her excavations, and even when she is at
dinner she must be thinking of her work, for she is very quiet. I own I once
hoped that Colonel Stirling might take an interest in her, for I would be very
glad to count him one of the family, but they are exceedingly cool toward each
other. She no longer complains about his manners, but she seems very reserved
when he is about. Such a pity, for a finer gentleman I have never known,
excepting my own dear Euan and Lord Exencour, of course!

You have no notion how lovely it is here
on summer evenings! At times it seems that the sun never sets at all! Isobel
and I have put our heads together and are planning a party here at Glencairn. We
shall invite the neighbors for dancing in the drawing room. There are any
number of young people who would enjoy such a thing, and it cannot hurt Sophy
to meet the sons of the local gentry again. After all, you never know when one
of them may have improved over the past months, and she might take an interest.
I know it is silly of me to think of such things, but I can hope. It is also
time that Douglas began to develop a bit of polish in social situations. After
all, he must marry one day as well, and, while he is a bit young I have no
desire to see him do what his father did, and remain unwed until he is forty! He
needs to know how to conduct himself in company, and what better place to learn
than in his own home, with such gentlemen as Lord Exencour and Colonel Stirling
to model himself after?

And now, my dear, I must go speak to the
housekeeper about the party. I am so delighted at the thought; it has been far
too long since we have had an entertainment here at Glencairn.

Your loving sister,

Harriet

Sophy awoke
when the sun rose high enough in the eastern sky to stream
through her windows, accompanied by the sound of birdsong and the whisper
of leaves as the early morning breeze moved them. Although it was high
summer, and the clear sky was promising a warm, sunny day, a chilly morning
would clearly precede it, and she snuggled into the warmth of her coverlet
and the mound of cloud-soft pillows that surrounded her. Slowly, the
warmth and coziness of her nest relaxed her into a light slumber and she
dreamed of the wind on the moors bending the heather into bands of different
colors, as the hawks soared above and the high noonday sun lit the landscape.

When a tall, dark
haired figure on a well-made bay rode into the scene, she smiled with pleasure
and waved, but then reality intruded through her dreamscape and she
jumped, jolted awake by the appearance of Ranulf Stirling, a man
she found tolerable at best, in her dream. What could have made her think of
him? He had been at Dargenwater Cottage for two weeks now, but Sophy had
assiduously avoided him, making sure to encounter him only when necessary, and
to limit her conversation with him to the merest commonplaces.

The question didn’t
bear examining, so she reached out from under the coverlet and
rang the bell violently. When her maid appeared with the tea
tray, Sophy had plumped up her pillows and sat waiting.

“Thank you, Wallis,”
she said absently. “I think I would like to paint on the moor today. This
breeze will blow the heather about, making the colors swirl together, and I
would like to capture it.”

“That’s a long walk,
Lady Sophia,” the maid replied, a bit doubtfully.

“Yes, and I have to
be back by the afternoon, as we mean to visit Lady Exencour. Have one of
the men come along with a handcart for my things. That will make the walk
easier for you.”

Wallis brightened up
immediately. “Certainly, Lady Sophia.”

The maid went to the
dressing room and pulled out a simple gown, one of several in an
out-of-date style that Lady Sophia saved to paint in. “Will this do, my
lady?” 

Sophy glanced
at the dull brown dress with a bit of a frown. “What about the blue
gown instead? It is so much prettier.”

“Of course, Lady
Sophia,” Wallis returned to the wardrobe, and pulled out the requested
dress. It was indeed much prettier than the faded linen in
which Sophy so often painted, being of blue muslin sprigged with a
floral pattern and trimmed with lace at the edges of the sleeves
and hem. When Sophy was dressed, Wallis felt pleased to see that
her mistress did her credit. But she took the precaution of pulling an
apron out as well, stuffing it into a bag along with a cloak in case the
weather on the heath was chillier than in the protected valley
where Glencairn Castle lay.

A
few minutes later, Sophy clattered down the stairs, her
curls flying behind her. She burst into the dining room, drawing a gasp of
surprise from Harriet, who was enjoying a cup of tea.

“Sophy, dear,
you mustn’t charge into rooms that way,” she said mildly. “It’s not
ladylike.”

“I’m
sorry, Mama.” Sophy dropped a kiss on her cheek and snatched a roll
from the table, biting into it without sitting down. “I overslept, and if I
wish to capture this light I must hurry.”

“Surely the light
will be here again tomorrow,” protested Harriet. “We’ve been in Scotland for nearly
a month, and I’ve barely seen you. Indeed, I think I see more of the Exencours
and Colonel Stirling than I do of you! Sit down and enjoy a proper breakfast
with me.”

“Tomorrow, perhaps,
if it rains,” said Sophy. “The light changes from day to day, you know. It
is never the same, and seems particularly beautiful this morning.”

Harriet peered out
the window. “It does look lovely,” she murmured. “Do be sure to be home in time
for our visit to Dargenwater Cottage. Your father was not at all
pleased yesterday when you were late to dinner.”

“I will,” Sophy promised,
finishing off the roll and taking a hasty gulp from the teacup Harriet had
filled and pushed toward her.

“Mind you take your
maid with you,” continued Harriet, but she stopped as she realized she was
speaking to an empty room. She shook her head mildly as she listened
to Sophy’s receding footsteps.

An hour
later Sophy and Wallis trudged up the dusty track that led to the
moors. Sophy was just beginning to regret the impulse that had brought her
here, when they topped a rise, and the view before them took her breath
away. The moors rolled out in all directions, the heather rippling in the stiff
breeze, the gray and brown of the rock outcroppings dark against the bright
blue sky dotted with white clouds. Sophy gave a little cry of happiness.

“The walk was so
tiring that I thought I might have made a mistake, but only see how beautiful
it is, Wallis,” she exclaimed.

Her maid looked
around stolidly. “It’s just a moor, Lady Sophia,” she said. “It looks this way
each time we come here.”

“But the heather is
so beautiful, and the sky—” Sophy glanced at Wallis, and then smiled. “Help
me set up my easel and paints.”

The footman unloaded
the equipment from the cart, and Sophy and Wallis set to arranging it. As
they finished, Wallis leaned over to adjust the brim of the straw hat her
mistress wore. Sophy gestured impatiently with her brush.

“Leave be, Wallis,”
she murmured. “I’m fine.”

“The sun has moved,
miss, and Lady Glencairn will have my head if I let you become
sunburned,” answered the maid practically.

“I don’t care about
my complexion,” retorted Sophy. “We are no longer in London, and I have no
plans to return next year. I can be brown as a berry and no one will notice.”

“His lordship will,”
said Wallis firmly, seizing the hat without hesitation and tilting it so that her
charge’s face was well shaded. “Your father has humored you by allowing you to
pursue your painting, but that doesn’t mean he wishes you to neglect your
appearance.”

Sophy looked
dismayed. “Is that what they’re doing—humoring me?”

Wallis relented with
a sympathetic glance. “Surely you realize that they wish you to marry. But I
know Lady Glencairn thinks you have a great deal of promise as a painter. I
heard her telling your brother that he was not to tease you about it, because
you were not doing this on a whim.”

“I’m glad she
understands a little,” sighed Sophy. “I do not mean to be disobliging, you
know. I wonder that everyone is so kind to me. It must bore you to watch me
paint.”

“Not at all, miss,”
replied Wallis.

Sophy laughed. “You
are altogether too patient. Why don’t you and Matthew take a walk together?” It
had not escaped Sophy’s notice that the manservant Wallis had chosen
to accompany them was both young and handsome and, she very much
suspected, was courting her maid.

“Oh no, I
couldn’t leave you alone,” protested Wallis.

“Nonsense. What will
happen to me here? We are not far from Glencairn land, and no one
comes here. You will hear me if I call you, and you will not be bored to tears.”
She glanced at the man, who was unloading a basket from the handcart.
“He is very handsome,” she whispered.

Wallis colored to
the roots of her hair, but dropped a curtsey and moved to help Matthew with
alacrity. When all was complete and her mistress’s paints were mixed and her
canvas prepared, she looked at her inquiringly.

“Run along,”
insisted Sophy. “I will be fine, and will call if I have need of you.”

Wallis glanced at
Matthew, and bobbing a curtsey, turned away. The pair wandered off slowly, the
maid pausing from time to time to turn her head and glance at Sophy, but
when her mistress did not look up, she eventually relaxed and ceased her
watching.