The Last Debutante (3 page)

As the day crept by, Daria began to fret. She didn’t want to spend an entire evening with these women, but they had yet to see any signs of civilization, and they hadn’t met a soul on that road. Daria was peering out the window with the hope of seeing a village ahead when the coach suddenly
came to a halt, sagging to one side as Mr. Brodie came down. A moment later, he opened the door. “Glenferness.”

The sisters looked at Daria.

But they were in the middle of nowhere, with nothing around them but forest.

Daria’s heart climbed right into her throat. “Pardon?” she croaked.

“Glenferness.” He walked away, and Daria could hear him unlashing her trunk.

Now Daria’s pulse began to pound. “Oh no—there must be some mistake.” She hastily climbed over the sisters’ legs and leapt out of the coach. “Mr. Brodie!”

He appeared from the back of the coach with her trunk on his shoulder, then dropped it like a bundle of hay at the side of the road. “Aye?”

“There is no house here,” Daria said, gesturing to the forest alongside the road.

“Aye, there is. Just a wee walk.”

Daria looked at the thick wall of trees. “A wee walk to
where
? I see nothing but forest.”

“There,” he said, and pointed.

Daria saw it then—a path no wider than a rabbit trail.

“You can’t possibly mean there is a house on
that
path.”

“Ach, lass, walk up the road, then. Ye’ll find it well enough.” He reached for her smaller portmanteau and placed it on top of her trunk.

“But what of my things?” Daria asked, panicking now. “Is there no footman? No conveyance? Am I expected to walk through those woods in these shoes and carry my own things?”

“Brodie lads will come round and bring the trunk, miss.
No time to dawdle, now—I’m to have the ladies to Piper-hill Inn by nightfall, and we’re a wee bit behind schedule.” He walked to the head of the coach.

“Good day, Miss Babcock!” Mrs. Gant called, sticking her silver head out the coach door. “Our regards to your grandmother!”

“But . . .”

Mrs. Bretton gave her a cheery wave as they rolled away.

That was how Daria had come to be utterly alone on the side of the road, thinking unkind thoughts about Mr. Brodie and Scotland.

“Quite a deep pit of muck you’ve walked into, Daria,” she sniffed. She glanced at the rabbit trail that passed for a road here. She’d never believed herself one to wilt at the first sign of trouble, but she felt on the verge of doing just that. She reminded herself that if Mamie—elegant, sophisticated Mamie—had come to Scotland and managed, then so could she. She had only to decide whether she would remain seated on the road waiting for marauders and murderers to come along or do as Mr. Brodie suggested and walk up that tiny, overgrown trail.

She stood up and looked at the dog. “Do you intend to accompany me? Or will you sleep the day away?”

The dog sat up, his tail wagging.

“Very well. But you must be responsible for yourself. I am not a nursemaid,” she warned him, and picked up her portmanteau. She took a deep breath, muttered a small prayer, and stepped onto the rabbit trail, almost toppling over when the dog rushed past her in order to be first on the path.

A
REDDISH MIST
clouded Jamie’s vision. Pain burned in full conflagration at his ribs, then down his left side to his toes. He was lying on his back, and when he tried to lift his head, searing pain blinded him. Feeling the back of his head for the source of the pain, he found a thick bandage. Along with the scent of witch hazel, commonly used to dress wounds, there was a sweet, cloying smell that he didn’t recognize.

He struggled to remember what had happened, where he was.

“You’re awake!”

The moment he heard the Sassenach’s voice, everything came flooding back. The old woman. The blunderbuss. Uncle Hamish. He tried to focus on her, but the haze in his vision was too dense.

“For heaven’s sake. She told me the valerian would keep you sleeping for hours!” She made a clucking, impatient
sound. “One should not call oneself a healer if one cannot concoct a proper sedative. You mustn’t worry, Mr. Campbell. I shall give you more.”

The woman suddenly loomed over him, giving his heart a start. She was smiling like a kindly grandmamma, with her hair knotted atop her head and her apple cheeks. “Feeling improved?” she asked hopefully. “I’ve some laudanum if the pain is too deep.”

Valerian and laudanum. Was she trying to kill him?

“Stay right where you are. I have a broth.” She disappeared from his sight as suddenly as she’d appeared.

She was barmy, this Sassenach. Jamie had to think his way out of this, but the fog in his brain and the pain in his side were making that impossible.

The woman appeared again. She was humming a jaunty little tune as she sat on the bed beside him, holding a wooden bowl, the contents of which smelled quite foul. She smiled as she leaned over once more, and a spoon began to dance before Jamie’s face.

Jamie pressed away from her, biting back the pain that ripped through him as he turned his head.

“Oh dear, you shouldn’t resist me, Mr. Campbell. How shall you ever regain your strength?” She grabbed his chin with her hand. Jamie tried to push her off, but the pain was so intense he began to see spots before his eyes. He must have opened his mouth to gasp as well, for the next moment the bitter broth was sliding down his throat.

“A few spoons more and you will rest peacefully.”

Peacefully in his grave.
How was it that an old Englishwoman was holding him, the Laird of Dundavie, prisoner? What feat of magic was this?

The woman smiled and held up another spoonful. Jamie jerked his head away and felt a wave of nausea at the pain.
“Tha thu as do chiall,”
he gasped, telling her she was mad.

“I think you should try not to speak, Mr. Campbell,” she said brightly. “Firstly, I don’t speak your language. Secondly, you should allow your body to rest and heal.” She bounced the spoon against his gritted teeth. Jamie sealed his lips against the assault of her spoon. When he refused to open, she sighed and pinched his nose shut. “I’ve reared children, Mr. Campbell. You cannot win in this.”

She was right. When at last he was forced to take a breath, she tossed more of the foul liquid down his throat.

“You’ll feel much recovered in no time, mark me,” she said soothingly, her words drifting somewhere high above him. He could feel himself sliding down the slope into oblivion, and his last conscious thought was that not only was he going to die in the hands of this madwoman, but he was going to die on Brodie land.

D
ARIA HADN’T TAKEN
more than a few steps when a stone pierced the sole of her shoe. She uttered a mild curse beneath her breath and carried on, choosing her steps carefully. The shadows were much deeper in the forest, making it difficult to see. More than once, the dog had darted ahead and then suddenly reappeared before her, startling her. “Walk on, you ridiculous mongrel,” she chastised him.

Her arms began to burn with the weight of her portmanteau. She swore to herself that if vultures did not carry her off, she would never travel with so many items again.
“
One
gown,” she said aloud, seeking company in the sound of her own voice. “One gown for evening, one for morning, and one for day. But no more than
three
gowns.” She shifted her portmanteau into the other hand. “And certainly no more than two pairs of shoes—”

The familiar smell of woodsmoke wafted to her now, bringing her to a halt. Where there was smoke, there was life, and hopefully that life was her grandmother. If not, well . . . Daria would face that conundrum if and when she met it. At that moment, she believed she could face any danger if it meant she could put down her portmanteau and take off her shoes.

She quickened her step, climbing up the path to the crest. There, on the edge of a green field where some cows were grazing and chickens were waddling about, was a cottage. And what a charming little cottage it was, with a thatched roof and blue flowers in the window boxes—the sort of cottage Mrs. Gant and Mrs. Bretton were determined to see on their tour.

“The peasants of Scotland take great pride in their cottages,”
Mrs. Gant had told her with the authority of someone who had studied her guidebook carefully.

“Please, dear Lord, let it be Mamie taking pride in this one.” Daria sighed, adjusted her portmanteau, and began picking her way along the path as the dog raced after something that had caught his attention.

Daria arrived at the fence that surrounded the garden. The swing gate was unlatched, and inside the fence was a large patch of glorious color—yellow, blue, and pink flowers springing up, looking slightly untended. In the other half of the small garden were green plants that
Daria assumed were root vegetables.
This
was where her grandmother lived? In a crofter’s cottage? Her elegant grandmother was a
crofter
? Daria pushed through the little gate and shooed a rogue chicken out of her path with her foot. “Mamie?” she called.

No answer.

Daria walked up to the rough-hewn door and hammered it with the flat of her hand. “Surprise, Mamie! It’s me, Daria!” She waited a moment, then added unnecessarily, “Your granddaughter!” She stepped back and stood with the portmanteau clasped in both hands, her smile deepening as she imagined Mamie’s great surprise and pleasure at finding her only granddaughter on her doorstep.

But Mamie didn’t open the door. No one opened the door. Was she mistaken? Was this not Mamie’s cottage after all? But Mr. Brodie had assured her that he knew precisely where it was. And he had seemed quite certain of himself when he’d deposited her on the side of the road.

Daria leaned forward and pressed her ear to the door, but she couldn’t hear anything. She debated for one long moment, then very gingerly and reluctantly put her hand on the latch. “Mamie?” she said again, and quietly, slowly, opened the door a tiny bit.

Through the crack she could see a wooden table with four wooden chairs around it. In the center was a porcelain bowl. On one end of the table was a black iron pot, covered with a lid. On the wall behind the table was a shelf with some books and a basket that held some balls of yarn and knitting needles, and dangling from a hook just below that was an apron. A stack of china plates and four crystal wineglasses looked vaguely familiar to her.

Daria pushed the door open a little wider and stuck her head in. Behind the door she could see that the kitchen was only one end of a much larger room. On the other end were a settee and two overstuffed chairs. A woolen rug covered the floor just before a stone hearth, in which a fire was cheerfully blazing. It looked as if someone had just stoked it. A pair of books was stacked neatly atop an end table, and next to that was Mamie’s favorite clock, the one Charity’s father had carved from cherrywood many years ago. On the mantel above the hearth were two silver candlesticks that Daria recognized as a gift her mother had given Mamie one year.

A rush of relief washed over her. This
was
Mamie’s cottage! She beamed now, proud of herself for having found it, for having braved her first solo journey. Eager to see her grandmother, she stepped inside, dropping her portmanteau on the floor. She removed her bonnet and tossed it on top of the portmanteau, then smoothed her hair as she walked into the room to look around.

“Mamie?” she called softly. Surely she was close by; the scent of freshly baked bread lingered in the air.

There was a corridor before Daria with two doors on one side and another at the end. She unfastened her cloak and draped it over the back of a chair. Perhaps Mamie was sleeping. She moved quietly, pausing to look inside the first room. There was a feather bed with a satin coverlet, a pair of slippers beside the bed. This would be Mamie’s room, but Mamie was not within.

Daria walked into the room and glanced around. There was no water in the porcelain basin and the hearth was cold. The wildflowers in the crystal vase on the mantel had
wilted and hung like ruined ribbons over the lip of the vase. There was no evidence of servants. Goodness, how did one live without at least one servant to help with things?

Daria moved on, past another sparsely furnished but tidy little bedroom. When she reached the closed door at the end of the hall, she knocked. Hearing nothing, she cautiously opened the door.

It was dark within, and the smell fetid. She pushed the door open wider and stepped just over the threshold, giving her sight time to adjust to the dim light. It was quite warm, and she glanced in the direction of another hearth, the fourth in the house, where embers still glowed. In a chair beside it was a heavy quilt of the plaid she’d seen a few men wearing in Nairn. Daria moved deeper into the room—and was brought to an abrupt halt by the sound of someone’s breath. The hair on the back of her neck rose; she whirled about, expecting to find something horrible behind her. What she saw caused her to clamp a hand over her mouth, capturing the shriek just before it left her.