The next morning, as a light snow dusted the streets of Edinburgh, Liam stormed out of their apartments. He returned several hours later accompanied by a plump gray-haired woman who was dressed in black bombazine. “Mared, leannan,” Liam said politely, “please meet yer chaperone, Mrs. MacGillicutty.”
“Pleased to make yer acquaintance, Miss Lockhart,” the woman said brightly. “Won’t we have a bonny time of it until yer brother can return for ye, aye?”
“Oh, aye,” Mared said, and shooting a look at Liam, she took the woman in hand and showed her about their apartments.
Liam, Ellie, and baby Duncan left a week after Mrs. MacGillicutty’s arrival, once Liam was satisfied that the old woman knew her business and would keep a watchful eye on Mared. As they loaded the ornate traveling chaise, Liam reviewed Mrs. MacGillicutty’s duties, which were, concisely, to ensure that Mared was never left alone in the company of a man of any sort. Gentleman or pauper, Liam cared not.
“She’s rather popular at the moment,” he said. “She’ll be even more popular when the gentlemen learn I’ve gone, aye?”
“Oh, indeed,” Mrs. MacGillicutty said, her lips pursed disapprovingly.
“I canna be plainer than this, Mrs. MacGillicutty,” Liam said and put his arm around Mared, yanking her to his side and pointing his finger at her. “Ye canna trust this one, aye? Our Mared is right charming when she’s of a mind and wants ye to behave in a certain manner, but ye canna allow yerself to be fooled, woman. Do ye quite understand?” he asked as Mared groaned and huffed toward the gray sky.
“Quite, Captain Lockhart.”
He let Mared go. “I’ll expect ye to write at least weekly if no’ more frequently.”
“It will be me pleasure!” the old bat swore and smiled sweetly at Mared.
And with a lot of farewells and Godspeeds, Liam and his family departed for Talla Dileas as Mrs. MacGillicutty waved good-bye with one hand and snaked the other around Mared’s elbow, holding it in an ironclad grip as if she expected Mared to bolt then and there.
Mared did not bolt then and there. She fancied herself more clever than that…but Mrs. MacGillicutty proved to be a worthy opponent. If a gentleman called—and several did—Mrs. MacGillicutty sat on the settee with Mared and read a book while the gentleman tried to make polite conversation with his mouth and love with his eyes and steal a touch of Mared’s hand when he could.
When the gentleman left, Mrs. MacGillicutty would invariably make a comment or two about him. “Rather surprising Lord Tavish has time to make so many social calls, what with his wife and six children needing him at home, aye?” Or “Mr. Anderson seems to be a frequent caller all around the square, does he no’? He seems to have placed ye right between Miss Williams there,” she said, pointing to one side of the square, “and Miss Bristol just there,” she’d say, pointing to the opposite side of the square.
Mared ignored the old woman, for she didn’t know what was really happening between Mared and her gentleman callers. She did not attend Mared at night, when she was afforded a modicum of freedom to attend all the fashionable supper parties and routs.
At these events, she flirted with abandon with all the gentlemen who paid her heed and chatted and gossiped with all the women who were kind to her. She avoided Miss Douglas, for that one rarely acknowledged Mared when they chanced to meet.
There were two gentlemen among several who seemed to be uncommonly interested in her. Mr. David Anderson, the son of Viscount Aitkin, had made it perfectly clear in both word and deed—whispered desires in her ear, stolen kisses under the cloak of darkness—that he would like their friendship to expand beyond its current boundaries, which, of course, she took to mean an offer of marriage. And Lord Tavish, the married earl, had also made it abundantly clear that he enjoyed Mared’s witty repartee. And her bosom.
Mared did not care for Lord Tavish in the least, really, and she’d never consider any sort of relationship with him beyond the innocent banter at supper parties, as he was quite married and quite old. And frankly, Mr. Anderson did not suit her entirely, either, in that he wasn’t Payton. He seemed neither as strong nor as intelligent nor even as witty as Payton. But he was the son of a viscount, the sort of match her family had always wanted for her, but believed she’d never have.
Shouldn’t she want it for herself? She had recently begun to think that perhaps she should be happy to marry a man of Anderson’s stature, and the fact that he wasn’t Payton—couldn’t hold a candle to Payton, really—she just ignored, pushing it down inside her, where all her feelings for Payton resided. Very deep. Dead and buried, as it were. He didn’t love her anymore—it seemed she should look to marriage elsewhere.