Chapter 5
Chapter Five
“… a
nd then, for the gut, a bit of ginger root with a touch of spearmint, brewed with hot and not steaming spring water,” Elspeth declared, gesticulating enthusiastically, a stray blade of grass clinging to her skirts as she swept it away.
The midsummer garden party bustled gently around them, parasols dotting the lawn like pastel mushrooms, footmen weaving through manicured hedges with trays of cordial and chilled custard tarts.
Birds chirped merrily from the yews, and a trio of musicians plucked a pleasant tune from beneath the shade of an elm.
“It settles the humors, aye, and eases an ache deep in the stomach. Though for true pains, like in the bones or muscles, willowbark is almost magical,” she added.
Lord Cranmore, a man whose nose seemed permanently upturned, raised a condescending eyebrow as he scratched his balding head.
“Magical, Lady Inverhall? Are we discussing potions and incantations now?” His tone was light but laced with ridicule, and Elspeth felt it.
“Indeed, Me Lord,” she responded, ignoring his sarcasm.
“Nature holds many secrets, if only one is willin’ to learn them.
I ken I am nae as powerful as the magnitude of nature.
Why, for a restless mind, a cup of chamomile and lavender tea before bed is like a lullaby for the soul and a balm for the spirit.
Juniper is kent to combat rheumatism. Aye, the earth gives us so much. We just need to listen.”
She beamed at the group, pleased with her descriptions.
Perhaps they will understand me.
Lord Ashworth, who had hosted that disastrous dinner four days ago, chuckled nervously as he sipped his wine. “Fascinating, Lady Inverhall. But… magical benefits? Are these not merely some old pagan folk remedies?”
“I half expect Merlin to appear out of the ether,” Lord Cranmore chimed in with a wry smile.
“Oh my! Do ye ken Myrddin Wyllt, too?”
“Beg your pardon, Lady Inverhall?” Lord Cranmore asked, arching an eyebrow as though he hadn’t quite heard correctly.
Though, of course, he had.
Then, he offered a tight, mirthless smile.
“Forgive me, but I’ve always found Highland customs rather theatrical.
Moss poultices, muttered incantations… They are superstitions masquerading as medicine.
” He waved a dismissive hand. “But I suppose in the glens, one must take what one can get. Education and refinement aren’t easy to come by when you are miles away from civilization. ”
A wave of laughter rippled through the group. Elspeth noted it, felt its sting.
She saw the Duke of Arrowfell tense across from her, his gaze darkening. However, she remained still. Still as a loaded pistol. She could not quell the storm that had begun swirling inside of her.
She took a steadying breath as she faced Lord Cranmore head-on.
If this is how ye want it to be, so be it.
“Folk remedies, ye call them? And what is yer modern medicine but a collection of folk remedies, only with more expensive bottles and a grander name?” She paused, then leaned in conspiratorially.
Her voice dropped, though it was still loud enough to carry.
“Besides, some things work best when whispered with the right words…”
She began to mutter, low and rapid, a string of Gaelic phrases under her breath.
“Bidh am fuachd a’ teicheadh… teicheadh an tinneas…”
The lords exchanged uncomfortable looks, some laughing lightly and some coughing.
Lord Cranmore edged away, paling slightly.
“What is she saying?” he whispered to Lord Fairfax. “Is she… is she casting a spell on us?”
“Do not look to me for an explanation,” Lord Fairfax muttered as he stepped back. “I am fluent in many tongues, but madness is not one of them.”
The Duke, who had been standing a few paces back as he conversed with an old acquaintance, pressed his lips into a thin line. He shot Elspeth a glare, which she knew was a silent command for her to stop her game.
She shook her head in defiance. She would not silence herself, not for reputation or anyone else.
The air hummed with polite chatter and the distant strains of a string trio at Lord Cranmore’s garden party. The Duke had told her that he hoped this more relaxed setting might make her more amenable to London’s social norms.
He was, as usual, mistaken.
Elspeth merely straightened up, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across her face. Her eyes met the Duke’s for a fleeting moment, a challenge in their depths. Then, she turned back to the now-visibly unnerved men, who were slowly growing sparser, which sent a small thrill through her veins.
“Aye, I was lost in me thoughts for a moment. It was just a little blessin’,” she said, her voice dripping with mock innocence. “For yer good health and prosperity, of course, Me Lords.”
“Right then, most charming, Lady Inverhall,” Lord Cranmore stammered, backing away as he pointed over his shoulder. “I must be elsewhere.”
“Indeed,” one of the other lords agreed, practically tripping over his feet to follow. “Lady Inverhall.”
The few remaining gentlemen, clearly unsettled, mumbled hurried excuses, and within moments, the group had fully dissipated. Elspeth was left standing alone, triumph warming her chest.
The Duke pushed off the table he had been leaning against, mumbled something to his acquaintance, and strode toward her, his expression thunderous.
“And what exactly was that performance?” he asked as he came to a stop, looming over her.
“I was merely sharin’ some of me Highland wisdom with the esteemed lords ye saw fit for me to throw meself at, Yer Grace,” she said with a wry smile.
“You will remember that our attendance here is for your benefit, not mine. The sooner you secure a suitable husband, the sooner you will move on with your life. Do you understand me?”
“Oh, perfectly, Yer Grace.” She gave him a wink as she sauntered away to meander about the grounds. “I will be sure to be me most charmin’, authentic self,” she called over her shoulder.
Hugo watched her closely as she walked around the grounds, a muscle ticking in his jaw when he noticed potential suitors politely avoiding her.
Whenever she approached a group, a subtle shift occurred.
He was unsure if it was her earlier stunt with the lords or if word of her reputation had somehow reached London.
At first, he thought it was a coincidence, but each time, he noted the lords turning their backs to her, suddenly becoming engrossed in their conversations.
It was a silent, damning rejection, far more poignant than any shouted accusation. He loathed the insidious rules of polite society, but he worked to obey them. He would play the game, but only if it benefited him.
“Did you see her gown? So terribly plain.” A debutante giggled, eyeing Lady Inverhall’s modest green dress. “Hardly the fashion for a marchioness, even if she is a dowager. Quite a bore for someone who is supposed to be so exotic!”
“I heard that the old Marquess drank all their money away,” another young woman whispered to her. “She is as poor as a pauper—comes from a small village. She has no money of her own, no real connections.”
“Oh my, however did you get that delicious tidbit of gossip?”
“I have a cousin in Edinburgh with whom I often correspond. In her most recent letter, she mentioned a strange Scottish marchioness who was making her way to London! She has all the news from the north. You know I am well-connected, dear friend.”
“Oh my, that is insightful, Mary!” the debutante gushed.
Hugo listened for a few more moments before tuning them out, especially when the conversation shifted to frilly ribbons and floral fabrics.
He was surprised that even the ladies, eager to scrutinize a newcomer, took such perverse pleasure in slandering Lady Inverhall.
It was obscene how they talked about her.
He saw her then, noting that she had likely heard at least a snippet of their conversation.
He watched her cheeks redden, as deep as an apple. She shifted uncomfortably amid the crowd, looking up at the clouds above. He wondered if she was conjuring rain, hoping to bring a tumultuous end to the day’s events.
Another lady chimed in suddenly, bringing the conversation back to her, “And her hair! With wildflowers braided in, as if she had just tumbled out of a hedgerow!”
Their laughter carried across the manicured lawn. Lady Inverhall, though pretending not to hear, stiffened before she walked away into a secluded topiary garden.
Hugo’s frustration simmered, a low boil in his gut as he wondered what to do. A part of him wanted to wipe the smirks off the ladies’ faces, the other damned Lady Inverhall for making it too damn easy.
This was not going to be as simple as he had thought.
Whatever will I do with the lass?
He looked at his pocket watch and groaned. The party would last for at least two more hours. Unless they decided to make an abrupt and early exit, which would only draw more attention to them. Hugo quickly decided that was something he did not need.
He looked around for a familiar face before finally settling on Aaron’s young cousin, Miss Sybil Longchamp.
“Is that you, Miss Longchamp?” he asked as he walked over to her tentatively.
“Oh my, Your Grace! I wish my cousin were here to see you. Unfortunately, I have been dragged here by my father. He thinks I need to get used to polite society, but I am bored to tears!”
“How old are you now?”
“Seventeen, Your Grace.”
“Well, you are getting on in your years then. Tell me, how would you like to meet a real Scottish lass?”
“Oh, yes! That would be exciting!”
Hugo waved to Lady Inverhall, with whom he had made eye contact as she sauntered out of the topiary gardens.
She looked behind her before making a gesture of disbelief, as if asking, Me?
He shook his head in frustration as she finally began walking toward him, earning a laugh from Sybil.
“I have someone I would like you to meet, Lady Inverhall,” he said with a smile.
“I have no interest in talkin’ to another bloody—”
“This is Miss Sybil Longchamp, Lord Sarford’s cousin,” he cut in, then turned to Sybil. “Miss Longchamp, this is the Dowager Marchioness of Inverhall.”
“Good afternoon, Lady Inverhall,” Sybil greeted with a curtsey. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance. I have always wanted to meet a real Scottish lady, especially after reading so much about them in The Highland Holiday.”
“Miss Longchamp,” Hugo commented, “it astonishes me that your parents allowed that sort of drivel under their roof.”
“Daenae listen to him,” Lady Inverhall said as she took Sybil’s arm and dragged her away. “In fact, I know a lot about the authoress of those works. If ye will swear yerself to secrecy, I can tell ye the real story of what inspired those words.”
“You must be joking,” Sybil shrieked, positively giddy.
Though Sybil was not the company Hugo had originally intended for Lady Inverhall, as he had hoped to introduce her to as many eligible gentlemen as possible, he took some comfort in knowing that with Sybil by her side, she was unlikely to cause more mischief.
He strode to the refreshments table and grabbed a glass of lemonade, before stuffing a few grapes in his mouth.
“A trying day, Your Grace?” Lord Ashworth inquired, his smile tempered with just enough sympathy to be palatable.
Hugo exhaled, the weight of the afternoon settling on his shoulders. “You cannot begin to imagine,” he said at last. Then, with a shake of his head, he straightened. “But enough of that. Tell me, what news of the trade routes?”
And just like that, the matter of his unrest was set aside, buried beneath charts and commerce and the comforting hum of duty.