Chapter Twenty-four
Elspeth did what she had always been taught to do—make herself so small and quiet that she erased herself from the conversation. But this time, she could not simply retreat to the privacy of her imagination. This time, she had to run to escape the sharp eyes of Hamish’s betrothed, Miss Lorrimer, who had looking her over as if Elspeth were the veriest slattern.
Where she ran was a matter of indifference. Through the trees, along the river and deep into the shadow of the woods was all she could think, letting the branches claw at her skirts and switch at her skin, running onward until her lungs were burning with shame and fury and she collapsed onto her knees, and lay sobbing in the moss-covered bracken.
She sobbed out the ache in her chest until it gradually grew smaller and smaller, hardening into something small enough to manage. Small enough to swallow.
Hamish’s betrothed.
She looked the part, Miss Lorrimer did—well dressed and well spoken, as if she would belong in Edinburgh, or Cathcart Lodge or the Marchioness of Queensbury’s Masquerade ball. As if she were sure of the world and her place in it. As if she were entirely legitimate.
Exactly as Elspeth was not. Just as she had always known.
But there was nothing Elspeth could do about it. The world was the way it was, and sobbing into the underbrush wasn’t going to do anything but make her face blotchy. So she stood and smoothed her skirts, and did the only thing she could do—headed home to Dove Cottage.
To the only place here she belonged.
“Is that you, Elspeth?”
At the sound of her aunt’s voice, Elspeth was enveloped in all the homey comfort of the familiar, and she wanted nothing more at that moment than to cast herself into their arms. Not that they were great comforters—physical displays of affection being few and far between at Dove Cottage. Still, a kind word could be as comforting as a posset.
Elspeth took a deep breath to try to soften the sharp edges of her feelings of betrayal and hurt. “Yes, Aunt Molly. I’m home.”
The Aunts met her at the garden door, standing in front of the portal with their arms linked together for support.
“What is wrong?” Elspeth rushed forward to assist them.
But Aunt Molly drew back, getting to her point with characteristic directness. “We’ve had the most alarming report, Elspeth, that you were seen consorting with a young man near the orchard this noontide, and then later along the lanes.”
“Michty me.” Dread tightened in Elspeth’s belly like a leather belt drawn too taut. She ought to have known, of course. She ought to have understood that there was no privacy in a village this small—someone was always watching. Someone always reported what they thought they saw.
And things never got better but that they got worse first.
“It was only Mr. Cathcart, Aunt. He and I were talking. And walking. And saying goodbye. He’s gone for Edinburgh and his life there.”
“You did more than talk if the moss on your collar, and the grass stains on your skirts, and the look of regret in your eye are any indication.”
“No, I—” Elspeth half-turned to try and find the moss, and, instead, found a grass stain on her shoulder. Not that she had never innocuously smudged or stained a gown or petticoat working in the garden before, but today, riddy heat seared her cheeks. “I went into the wood by myself, after he left. To…” To have a good cry would be too revealing. “To be alone.”
But Aunt Isla wasn’t listening—she had been watching Elspeth’s hot face. “Well, at least you’ve the good sense to be mortified by your actions, but I’ll tell you this Elspeth Otis, we raised you better than to consort in orchards with the likes of him—a tramp.”
“He’s not a tramp. I told you, he’s Mr. Hamish Cathcart. He’s a gentleman.”
“Who?” Isla cupped her hand to her ear and then looked to Molly, as if for translation.
“Mr. Cathcart,” Elspeth repeated, even as she could feel the telltale heat creep up her neck. “He was only pretending to be a gardener. He’s the son of the Earl Cathcart.”
“Mr. Cathcart? Son of an earl?” Isla was still confused. “However did you meet him?”
“It makes no nevermind, Elspeth Otis.” Aunt Molly held up her hand and closed her eyes, barring any attempt at explanation. “Surely even you are not such a dreamer to imagine that a man of such a fine family would want you for any other reason than to desport himself while ruining you.”
“Ruined? I’m not ruined! I’m—” But what was she? Miss Perfect Lorrimer in the lane was his betrothed.
Molly was right—Elspeth was nothing to him. “I’m sorry.”
“We’re more than sorry, too,” Aunt Molly said. “Blood will out, Isla’s always said. We tried to raise you right and keep you from iniquity. We did our best—no one can say we didn’t—but we won’t be made to put up with it, do you hear?” Aunt Molly did not wait for Elspeth’s answer, but continued straight on. “We raised you better, Elspeth, and we won’t be subject to such…”
“Such licentiousness.” Isla supplied the necessary word on a whisper that seemed to take the last of her strength—she swayed and began to crumple toward the floor.
Elspeth was instantly there to catch her, and bear her through the kitchen to the parlor settee.
“No, no,” Isla objected. “Don’t touch me,” she cried. “I want Molly.”
“Of course,” Elspeth stood back.
“You must go,” Molly instructed Elspeth. “Can’t you see what you’ve done?”
Elspeth wouldn’t argue that Aunt Isla’s palpitations were all her own and not Elspeth’s fault, but she knew in her heart she was to blame—Isla was too weak to withstand such a blow to her niece’s reputation. “I’ll just put the kettle on the hob to make a posset.”
“No.” Aunt Molly’s voice was as emphatic as it was fragile. “You needs must be gone.”
Her meaning burned Elspeth more deep than any scald from the hob. “Aunts, please.” Elspeth tried to speak over her rising panic. “I haven’t subjected anyone to any licentious—”
“Don’t lie to us, Elspeth. Close up thine mouth before the devil can take any more of your words.”
Dread and panic brewed a hissing pot of shame that sealed her mouth. Elspeth recognized the trunk on the other side of the door—its meaning becoming apparent with a sort of searing pain that ripped a hole in her tattered heart.
“As much as it pains us to say”—Molly squared her thin shoulders—“we’re done with you, Elspeth. We can’t have you here in this house if you’re going to behave with such total disregard for the morals and strictures to which you’ve been raised.”
“Can’t have me?” Were they casting her out? Now, when they had done all they could, by means fair and foul, to bring her back not a week ago?
The shame and dread were diluted with consternation. And a growing indignation.
“We won’t have it, I tell you,” Molly was saying. “We won’t. We can’t have this upset.”
The pain leeched out slowly, leaving Elspeth rather numb. “You’re putting me out?”
“We are. We must. For your own good.” Aunt Molly’s wrinkled face was lined with tears. “So you’ll realize the value of what you’ve lost and come to your senses.”
“My senses?” Elspeth could hardly believe what she was hearing.
“Aye.” Aunt Molly stood quietly firm. “Much as it pains us. You’ll have to go.”
“Aye then, I will. If you’ll be so kind as to let me fetch my cloak and hat.” Elspeth didn’t wait for their approval, but mounted up the stairs to her room. The sloped ceiling that had only that morning seemed so close and comfortable and warm was now too close and confining. Too small minded.
She snatched up a work bag and threw in only enough to put her on the road to Edinburgh, even if she had to ride in a dray like the castoff she was meant to be.
She could only pray that Aunt Augusta would still take her in.