Chapter 8 Katie
Chapter 8 Katie
“Dining etiquette during the Edwardian era was highly dependent on rank.” Mrs. Lennox stood at the head of a long table in
the spacious dining room of Craighill, her golden gown shimmering in the fake candlelight.
Impressive with its vaulted wooden ceiling and wall of large windows, the room boasted of a time and place of grandeur that
didn’t quite match the simple ten-seater, but Emily had said the Lennoxes were continually having new furniture delivered
in order to better match the era.
And the experience .
However, the structure itself already gave the sense of stepping back in time. Stone, woodwork, centuries-old paintings. Those
things alone bumped the experience higher on the ratings scale, despite my somewhat loony introduction to the place.
Now, if only I could get my wardrobe to match the general ambience. I stared down at my simple floral dress, my only “formal”
attire I’d packed since Mrs. Lennox assured guests that appropriate clothing was provided. The fact that my summer midi hit
at my knee probably broke some sort of Edwardian rule and assured me of a future scandal, but what was a girl to do when she
clearly didn’t have the wardrobe to match the Downton vibes yet?
“We shall experience our first formal dinner tomorrow, with each guest dressed in appropriate evening attire.” Her gaze landed on me as if my appearance earlier in the day, or maybe even now, was currently seared on
her brain.
I sighed and looked away, only to run right into Mark’s glare as he stood across the table from me. His smirk and very obvious perusal of my body only dug the sense of not measuring up even deeper.
Way to hit on my biggest insecurity, Mark the Menace.
“I assure you, not only will you enjoy the elegance of the dining, but our chef plans to prepare a feast that will leave you
duly impressed.” Her attention turned to Mr. Logan, who responded with a gracious nod.
“Dining for the rich of this time period was a three- to four-hour event.”
Three to four hours? Well, back home in Appalachia, meals could last that long, but it was only because everyone sat around
and talked forever. Were things the same in the Edwardian era? For some reason, I couldn’t quite imagine someone in this setting
resembling my uncle Dean, who would loosen his belt, lean back in his chair, and pick food out of his teeth with his pocketknife.
“And tonight I mean to set before you some of the rules of Edwardian dining so you will be prepared with your seating and
basic etiquette for the rest of our time.”
She waved toward the table, each place setting as immaculately ordered as if Mr. Carson himself stepped from the screen of
Downton Abbey with his handy measuring thingy in tow.
“Wealthy Edwardian families, as we wish to emulate during your stay here, enjoyed a great variety of the best foods of the
time, with an incredibly high volume of meat dishes, including fish, butcher’s choice, and fowl in one sitting.”
The carnivore within me offered an internal growl of appreciation... and then proceeded to echo a not-so-internal one.
Loud enough to garner a crooked grin from Mr. Wake, who leaned in my direction. “Right on cue.”
Despite the warmth in my cheeks, I grinned and shrugged a shoulder. “Accidentally being on cue is my forte.”
His eyes crinkled with his smile, the exchange surprising me because it was the first normal encounter I’d had since arriving. Maybe Mrs. Lennox meant for eccentricity to be one of Craighill’s charms.
Niche. I’d give her that.
“I hope the chef lives up to Mrs. Lennox’s praise, because the cucumber sandwiches at lunch didn’t quite do the trick.” Mr.
Wake patted his stomach.
“You didn’t get a chance to try any of the salmon sandwiches?” I whispered back. “They were delicious.”
“I’m afraid Mr. Page preceded me in line.”
And without elaboration, Mr. Wake added another reason for me to send a frown to Mark’s profile. Taking all the sandwiches
before nice Mr. Wake had a chance to eat one? Boar!
“Pardon me.” Ana Lennox raised a delicate hand in the air, and unlike the rest of the folks who’d either kept their afternoon
clothing or changed into something less Clue-like, Ana now wore a glittering and possibly air-constricting blue gown. I had
to admit the shade brought out the color of her eyes, which is where I tried to keep my attention since the rest of her skin
strived for an escape from the confines of her dress in an unflattering way.
“I’m a vegetarian,” Ana continued, blinking her fake eyelashes with extra gusto. “So I’ll need the non-meat option.”
Mrs. Lennox blinked back a few times, and then her smile grew tight enough to possibly bounce a penny. “When did you become
a vegetarian, dear ?”
“Two weeks ago when I visited Charlene at her home in Sussex. She’s a vegetarian and swears that her hair has become glossier
from the effort. I felt certain I should become one too since she made such a valiant case. As you know, I’ve never been a
particular fan of beef or pork anyway.”
The whole collection of people surrounding the table turned their attention back to Mrs. Lennox, whose eye may have twitched the teeniest bit. Her husband, however, offered a gracious chuckle. His good-natured glance around the room inspired the same feeling as when I watched any version of Mr. Bingley from Pride and Prejudice . Even his beige suit offered a more relaxed and welcome appeal.
“Ah well. I imagine this interest is as transitory as the last one, Ana darling. In fact, you may develop a sudden liking
for steak before we even reach dessert tonight.”
Ana’s laugh bubbled out, apparently unaffected by the teasing, and she waved a dismissive hand at her father. “Now, Father,
you’re going to make everyone think I’m petty.” Her blue gaze trailed the room, pausing on Mark, Mr. Wake, Mr. Logan, and
even one of the valets, before returning to her mother. “I suppose a little chicken wouldn’t hurt anything.”
“There’s the spirit, darling,” Mr. Lennox offered with a raised glass. “Don’t allow the legumes to have all the fun.”
I caught my laugh with my hand and met Mr. Wake’s grin.
“Tom’s learned to keep a steady head and quick laugh when it comes to the ladies in his life.” He tapped his temple. “Very
clever motto, I’d say.”
With a Downton Abbey reproduction and a husband-hunting daughter, both probably came in handy.
“There were not the same allowances of food choices in the Edwardian era, if we wish to be authentic,” Mrs. Lennox continued.
“However, I shall speak with Chef. Since there are upwards of seven courses, you should find a variety of options for any
dietary needs.” She drew in another breath and gestured toward the table. “As I was saying earlier, rank matters in all areas
of the Edwardian life, and none other is so apparent than at the dinner table. As your hosts, Mr. Lennox and I will hold the
places of honor at the center of the table, facing each other.”
She nodded to her husband, who took his place, waiting to sit until she was settled.
Having watched way too many Regency era movies, I’d expected the hosts to sit on either end of the oval-shaped table instead of in the center, so this would be an interesting fact to tell all of my Austen-loving followers later.
“Now, the highest-ranking lady would sit on Mr. Lennox’s right.” Mrs. Lennox scanned the room, attention landing on Miss Lennox.
“Which, my dear, I believe is you.”
With another giggle, Ana sashayed to her place and slid down into the seat beside her father. “I do hope you sit near me,
Lord Wake.”
The man, easily Ana’s father’s age, may have smiled beneath his mustache. Maybe. But the quiet groan of annoyance I heard
at his nearness suggested otherwise.
“The highest-ranking man will then sit to my left.” Everyone’s attention moved to “Lord” Wake.
He recovered from his discomfort (and perhaps he felt relieved at being all the way across the table from Ana) and offered
a gracious smile to the room as he took his seat.
“The second highest lady”—Mrs. Lennox’s gaze skipped right over me and offered Miss Dupont an encouraging smile—“will then
sit to the host’s left. While the second highest-ranking gentleman will be placed at the hostess’s right.” Evidently my fishing
pole and wellies dropped my social status to the bottom rung.
At this, Mrs. Lennox appeared a bit uncertain as to next in line.
“I’ll gladly take the spot, Mrs. Lennox.” Mark stepped forward and bowed. With an arrogant tilt to his head, he walked past
Mr. Logan and took the seat on the other side of Mrs. Lennox.
The man really needed his pride knocked down a few notches.
Mr. Logan and I filled in the other spots near the head of the table, with me sitting beside Lord Wake, and Mr. Logan beside
Ana, which seemed to please her much more than him.
“Tomorrow evening it will be appropriate for each of the gentlemen to pull out a chair for the lady nearest him, as we do not have enough footmen to complete the task. However, in Edwardian times, if there were sufficient servants, they would have drawn out the ladies’ chairs.”
“I do believe we women are quite capable of pulling out our own chairs.” This from Miss Dupont, whose expression wasn’t as
quiet as her usual disposition.
I wasn’t certain, but I thought I saw Mrs. Lennox roll her eyes before turning a humorless smile on Miss Dupont. “Yet you
all are here to experience the Edwardian era, so we will stay close to the rules of that time as much as possible.”
“And pulling out a chair wasn’t a sign of weakness as much as a sign of appreciation,” Ana added and then tipped one of her
bare shoulders. “And I think it’s very dashing.”
I suppose it could be dashing. However, I’d only had a chair pulled out for me by a man three times.
Once was on a date (and, I have to admit, it was a little dashing), once was on stage, and the other was by my oldest brother
to see how hard I’d hit the ground. Despite the latter, I rather liked the idea of being treated like a lady, so that was
a point for the Edwardian era.
“I am sorry to inform all of you that our butler, Mr. Reynolds, has been called away on a family emergency and will not be
joining us for a week,” Mrs. Lennox said. “It is a butler’s usual occupation to organize those serving the meal, but we will
have to make do with our two footmen for now.” She waved to the two men standing against the wall on opposite sides of the
room. “Do not worry; I shall have a replacement in the morning.”
A replacement butler by morning? Sounded like a car. Were there just extra butlers for hire around here?
“Before we begin our meal, I should remind you that maintaining composure at all times is a sign of refinement, so if you feel yourself having high emotions, find a way to control them.” Mrs. Lennox settled her attention on her daughter, and my wellies didn’t seem so bad after all. “Or excuse yourself from the situation in order to collect yourself. Keeping your head is a true sign of nobility, whether you are royal or not.”
Mrs. Lennox clapped her hands, and as if by magic, a set of doors to the left opened, allowing the two footmen, along with
a lady, to reenter, each carrying a tray of food.
“Tomorrow we will have our hors d’oeuvres in the drawing room before we make our way to dinner, which is customary of the
times. Tonight your meal will begin with the first course. Soup.”
One of the servants placed a bowl in front of me filled with a green substance topped with croutons? Breadcrumbs?
“We begin with Chef’s Vintage Pea Soup.”
The servants moved around us in surprising synchrony, clearly well trained, even if the butler wasn’t here. As soon as everyone
had their soup, Mrs. Lennox raised her spoon and surveyed the room. “It was customary for guests to begin eating only after
the hostess.”
And with that, she took a taste of her soup.
The rest of us followed. I’d expected bland. But some sort of tangy flavor blended in with the typical pea taste, tumbling
over my taste buds with a surprisingly pleasant richness.
“Excellent texture,” Mr. Logan murmured as he stared down into his bowl with more admiration than any man had ever bestowed
upon me. “The consistency is perfect.”
“Chef le Blanc is most experienced,” Mrs. Lennox preened. “And a good friend of Mr. Lennox.”
“You should see him wrestle an alligator.” Mr. Lennox nodded before raising his glass again. “There’s nothing quite like eating
what you catch yourself.”
An alligator-wrestling French chef. It was a wonder that combination had never entered my mind in all my life.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Mark interjected with a satisfied grin. “I’ve had quite a few similar experiences, which I feature on my popular YouTube channel, if you’re interested. Especially the one about the kangaroo.”
“You ate a kangaroo?” Miss Dupont nearly stood from her place, her face growing pale. “A... a kangaroo?”
“They’re actually pests in Australia.”
Kanga and Roo flashed to mind as they appeared in book form from Winnie the Pooh . I pushed through another swallow of pea soup.
“Pets?!” Ana gasped.
“No, pests .” He bit down on the word. “The country is practically overrun with the creatures. It’s legal and encouraged to attempt to
cull the population. I hope to find some game here to show to my viewers. What would you suggest, Mr. Lennox?”
Mr. Lennox’s pale brows rose and he leaned back in his chair. “I haven’t the foggiest. Fish would come in plenty, I’d say,
but you’d need to check with regulations before you go blasting about the island, Page. The locals may not be too keen.”
“Of course.” Mark nodded as if dismissing the man. “I always cover those bases.”
“I’ve seen a few deer. Venison was once a widely consumed meal,” Mr. Logan added. “Wild goat too.”
Oh dear—and then I stifled my grin. Not a moment for puns, especially from the horrified expression on Ana’s and Miss Dupont’s
faces.
“Not the deer.” Ana dropped her spoon. “Oh, how could you?”
Looks like Ana’s husband interests just decreased by one.
For now.
Without so much as a look in her direction, Mark turned to Mr. Wake. “Ever had elephant?”
Ana whimpered.
“I can’t say my tastes have been as eclectic as yours, Mr. Page,” Mr. Wake said, gesturing toward the bowl with his soup.
“But I agree with Logan that this soup is one of the finest I’ve had.”
Nice touch of redirection. A gentlemanly move.
“Perhaps it is more appropriate to discuss topics of more universal interest.” Mrs. Lennox looked from Ana to Mark. “Perhaps
the weather? Or the gardens?”
“The gardens here are certainly beautiful, Mrs. Lennox,” I offered, just to help. “Did you design them?”
Her smile softened, and I caught Mark’s glare from my periphery.
“I’m afraid I’m not so skilled, but the owners of Craighill are the true masterminds behind the design. With your permission,
I shall give them your compliments.”
I nodded.
“If you don’t own Craighill, then who does?” This from Mr. Logan.
“A local family called the MacKerrows. The house is a part of their family history, but they have let it to us so that you
all can have this experience.” She waved toward the table, and the room grew quiet except for the tinkling of spoons and bowls.
The MacKerrows? As in Graeme and Mirren MacKerrow?
I reexamined the room. They owned a manor house?
For some reason, they didn’t quite fit my idea of manor house owners. And Graeme didn’t seem the sort to appreciate Mrs. Lennox’s...
creative venture.
Maybe it belonged to a rich grandpa or uncle MacKerrow. But then why would the owner rent their house to outsiders instead
of using it themselves?
I took in the windows and woodwork. Envisioned the rooms I’d seen already.
The few historical romance books I’d read that hinted about owning a grand house always talked about cost. So, was it that
the MacKerrow family needed money for upkeep? But there were dozens of ways to use this house instead of for an Edwardian
re-creation. A museum, restaurant, inn, venue. Ooh, just imagine the wedding photos on those front stairs!
And Mull wasn’t the easiest place to get to, so maybe that played a role in things.
Mulling—I smiled at my own pun—over the possibilities only left me with more questions. Questions I’d probably ask Mirren
if I got the chance.
Fish came next—halibut in hollandaise sauce, to be exact—which Ana took, explaining how fish was acceptable for vegetarians.
Perhaps the talk of eating all the other animals weakened her defenses against fish.
Again, the food tasted amazing, and I suppose it gave me some sense of false security, because when the unusual-looking main
course arrived, I didn’t even question the contents.
“This can’t be,” Mr. Logan exclaimed, his eyes wide with more emotion than I’d seen on the man’s face since meeting him. “I
can’t believe you’ve provided this delicacy, Mrs. Lennox.” His palm pressed to his chest.
I stared back at the meat on the plate, covered with some light gravy and long beans tastefully framing it. Was it beef?
“I mentioned to Chef that it was your favorite.” Mrs. Lennox nodded. “Only the very best for my guests. And pig heart was
quite the delicacy in Edwardian times, often served during Christmas festivities.”
My smile stilled on my face. Had she said what I thought she said?
I looked over at Mr. Lennox on the other side of the table, and his smile only broadened. Miss Lennox tilted her head slowly
to the right, her brow growing increasingly more wrinkled beneath her blond curls.
Pig heart?
Mrs. Lennox began eating, and Mr. Logan joined in with gusto, so I decided to ignore the people around me and focus on the
“delicacy.” After all, I’d tried a whole lot of different foods on my travels. Most of the time, though, I preferred the stranger-looking
dishes to remain anonymous.
Charlotte’s Web flashed through my thoughts, but I forced the notion far back into the recesses of my brain, along with my sixth-grade band
concert first date, and the embarrassing moment when Mom called me by my sister’s name in front of an entire auditorium.
My mouth went dry as I stared down at my plate, trying to redefine the word heart into something like chicken breast. I could do this. So what if it was a pig’s heart? Logan, the food expert, called it a
delicacy.
I drew in a deep breath and slid my knife into the meat, but the slippery thing moved around a little on the plate as if trying
to get away.
“It may require a bit of elbow grease.” Logan gestured with his knife. “Depending on Chef’s cooking methods.”
My added fervor only succeeded in sending the pieces diving off the plate.
“Oh!” Humor to the rescue. “Seems this one’s still alive.”
Mr. Logan merely raised an unamused brow. Lord Wake’s lips quirked.
Mark leaned around Mrs. Lennox to add a sneer, his eyes narrowed as if my poor dining skills personally offended him.
“Clearly, we will need to offer added lessons on cutlery use before dining tomorrow, Miss Campbell.” Mrs. Lennox’s hands squeezed
together.
“If we have something like steak or pork chops, I’m a little more skilled than when eating”—I swallowed—“pig heart.”
“Just a slightly firmer grasp on the fork there, I think.” Lord Wake leaned in, bringing the sweet scent of cigar smoke with
him. “It’s actually quite delicious.”
One of my quieter snorts burst out. “Well, I don’t want to seem like a hog.”
Lord Wake grunted his approval of my wordplay, and certain every eye was carefully watching me mutilate my meal, I tried not
to saw the dish in half.
Then the strangest thing happened. Out of the corner of my view, I saw something shoot across the table from the other side of Mrs. Lennox.
A small, baseball-sized something.
My fingers tightened around my fork, which made a squeaky sound on my plate. Was that a pig’s heart?
With a clatter of dishes, the item landed with a crash in Ana’s plate, vaulting her pile of roasted vegetables in various
directions.
She screamed and pushed back from the table. “Get it away from me. I can’t stand it.” And then she shot up from the table,
knocking over one glass as another started to teeter.
Mr. Logan stood to catch the falling glass, and I rose with him to, well, I wasn’t sure what, but the next thing I knew, Ana’s
hands flew up in an attempt to back farther from the heart and she hit Mr. Logan square in the nose. In his shock, he stumbled
back into me, knocking both of us off-kilter. My foot twisted against the leg of my chair as Mr. Logan and I fell backward.
Unfortunately, Mr. Logan reached out for something to stop his fall, which ended up being... the tablecloth. It’s amazing
how life slows down for these particular misadventures, as if they are scenes from a movie.
Ana was frozen in midscream, Mr. Lennox’s bushy eyebrows rose to attention, Lord Wake reached out as if to catch me, and Mrs.
Lennox’s eyes widened to dinner-plate proportions. All while a lone green bean made its legendary flight across the table,
haloed in fake candlelight.
Then the moment passed.
With all the grace I’ve never had, I and the chair crashed to the floor with Mr. Logan landing to my side, followed by four
sets of dishes, a candelabra with battery-operated (thankfully) candles, and a gravy bowl... which actually had real gravy
in it that split its impact between my dress and Mr. Logan’s white button-down.
Thankfully, my most cushiony side landed first, followed by the rest of me, so apart from a little pain in my derriere and the icky sensation of gravy running across my knees, I was fine.
Mr. Logan didn’t fare as well. He sat up with a green bean dangling over his forehead, gravy from his chin to his naval, and
twin blood trails from his nostrils. A culinary monsterpiece ?
Not the time for puns, but they had a tendency to pop into my head regardless.
Ana seemed equally as horrified, because she took one look at Mr. Logan, raised her hands in the air with another scream,
and fled the room. Lord Wake rushed to my assistance while Miss Dupont made her way to Mr. Logan’s, and Mr. Lennox reached
to grab a glass of wine that had shifted places on the table from the tablecloth rotation.
“I... I cannot believe this... this...” Mrs. Lennox’s voice raised with the color in her cheeks as Ana’s sobs filtered
down the hallway. “Pandemonium.”
She stormed from the room after her daughter, slipping on a bit of food, probably pig heart, as she went.
So much for Edwardian composure.
Lord Wake steadied me to my feet and then moved to assist Mr. Logan, while Miss Dupont waved a napkin in front of Mr. Logan’s
face, trying not to get near his nose. Poor Mr. Logan’s face, apart from the gravy bits, was as red as his bleeding nose.
“I... I assure you. I have never had something like this happen to me in all my life.”
One of the pros of living through dozens of embarrassing experiences was that my emotions mostly bypassed anger or humiliation
and went directly to humor. But thankfully, I turned my laugh into a cough just in time.
I took one of the napkins from the table and dipped it into my glass of cold ice water, offering it to Mr. Logan as he stood.
“For the blood.”
Mr. Logan took the offering and began to wipe his face, eyes widening. “The... the blood?”
He looked from me down to the cloth he pulled from his nose, the smear of red undeniable, and with another glance to me, his
face went white all the way to his lips... and he fainted.
Thankfully, Lord Wake was already in position to catch Mr. Logan.
Which brought Mr. Lennox from his seat, wine glass still in hand. “What a night!” He grinned and cheered toward them. “I thought
Mrs. Lennox’s little hobby would prove a bore, but this is exciting.” He placed his glass on the table and moved to help Lord
Wake with Mr. Logan’s limp body. “And the food was excellent, don’t you think?”
I looked from Mr. Lennox’s clueless grin to Lord Wake’s confusion, and back. “Perhaps someone should take Mr. Logan to his
room?”
“We’ll take on the task, won’t we, Wake?” came Mr. Lennox’s cheery reply. “What man hasn’t been bashed in the nose a time
or two and lived to tell the tale, eh? Do you remember that time in Africa?”
Lord Wake offered a resigned grin to his friend, and as Mr. Lennox recounted some story about a mischievous monkey and a teapot,
he silently assisted Mr. Logan out the door.
“Men really can’t stomach the sight of blood, can they?” Miss Dupont pushed up her glasses and placed her napkin back on the
table. “It’s a good thing we were here to assist him.” With a sniff, she glanced toward the kitchen door. “I wonder if they
plan to serve us the rest of our meal in our rooms?” And with purposeful steps, she headed toward the kitchen.
I stood there, one hand poised on the back of my righted chair and the other rubbing my softest spot, pondering if this was
how the first night of our Edwardian Experience went, what was the rest of it going to be like?
Then the hair on the back of my neck stood on edge as I turned to find Mark standing from his seat. He hadn’t moved the whole time. Not even to help.
Maybe Mrs. Lennox should feature a chivalry class. I bet Lord Wake could teach it.
Mark walked toward me, smug grin growing as he neared, and as he passed he leaned in my direction. “I bet this little fiasco
I started tonight will overshadow your ‘Falling for a Scot’ post in no time.”
Are you kidding me? He was the one who purposefully sent the pig heart toward Ann Lennox? What a jerk move! How on earth had I ever wanted to kiss him?
And my article’s title was not “Falling for a Scot,” it was “Falling on a Scot.” I had no intention of falling for anyone on this trip, especially a Scot.
Mr. MacKerrow’s blue eyes flashed to mind, and I quickly pushed them way far back behind a dozen years of memories. “I don’t
plan my situations, Mark! And I don’t hurt people.”
Usually. I mean, if someone does get hurt, it’s completely by accident.
Except once.
“And look what you did to all of the chef’s hard work.” I gestured toward the destroyed table. “You totally missed the mark
on this one. Not even near the target. The Vision Award is about a whole lot more than how many viewers you have. It’s about content and personality
too.”
His eyes narrowed, his nose even flared. “I’m not losing the Vision Award to you again, and if it’s misadventures I need to
win, then let the ‘mishaps’ begin.” He made air quotes, and I curbed the urge to slap down his hands.
Had he always been this annoying with air quotes?
“I don’t play games that involve disregarding other people’s safety, Mark.”
“Logan’ll be all right.” He shrugged a shoulder and winked, but just before leaving the room, he turned. “The game is on.”
***
Evidently the disaster from the night before failed to thwart Mrs. Lennox’s plans. First thing in the morning, I found a card
slipped beneath my door that read:
Miss Campbell,
Please meet our party in the drawing room after breakfast. The Edwardian Experience must go on!
Mrs. McTavish was able to add enough lace to the bottom of your green gown to have it cover your calves, even though it will
still be shorter than is period appropriate. I’m sending this gown with Emily. She knows what to do.
L
PS: Two of your gowns should be in today.
The green gown? The one that was much too tight around my upper cello? Sigh. Well, this should be... uncomfortable.
At least my scandalous calves would be covered.
I dashed off a few lines to Dave, letting him know I’d received the pages he wanted me to edit, before checking to see how
the post Mark had mentioned was doing. As soon as I opened the screen, I groaned.
World on a Page had titled the article about my initiation into the experience at Craighill as “Falling for a Scot.” My shoulders slumped.
Oh, my readers were going to have a field day with this. They’d been trying to cyber-match me for years.
I read through my own words, grinning a little at my turns of phrases and the hint of exaggeration in the description of the parrot-stair-railing incident. Then my highly complimentary and exaggerated description of the Scot who “caught” me.
Hmm... well, maybe not too exaggerated. He was handsome in a rugged, salt-of-the-earth sort of way. And the size of his
arms served to advertise his work ethic... and strength. I cleared my throat. And he really shouldn’t have eyes so soul-searching.
Every time we’d made solid eye contact while we walked from the village back to the manor house, my brain stumbled on my next
words.
Which probably meant I sounded like a complete imbecile.
But there was something about his direct look—I felt that he could see all the way back to my broken childhood. Maybe it was
a magical Scottish thing passed down by the faeries or something, because his mom had the same ability.
To see me.
Except Mirren’s stare hadn’t shaken my pulse.
I rolled my gaze heavenward and pushed back from my chair. What was wrong with me? You’d think I’d never looked deeply into
a handsome man’s eyes before.
I paused on the thought. Had I really?
Like the soul-searching kind of look?
Maybe that came with falling in love, which I may have partially done while watching The Lord of the Rings for the first time, but I’m pretty sure it’s not the same thing.
A knock at my door pulled me from my strangely hypnotic thoughts about Graeme the Grump’s eyes and arms.
Emily greeted me with a smile and a good morning. As an undergrad student pretending to be a lady’s maid for this Edwardian
Experience, Emily seemed a pretty normal young woman. A history major at the University of York, she’d taken on this job for
the solid pay, the research, and the chance to summer in Scotland. All tabs on her wish list.
To be honest, so far summering in Scotland fit my wish list too. A strange realization, actually. For some reason, I’d always equated “summering somewhere” with Italian villas or beachfront condos. Maybe that’s why I’d never really summered anywhere before—because none of those places fit my preferences. Despite my mom’s unswerving belief that I was an extrovert like my sister, I wasn’t.
I enjoyed people in controlled doses, but I recharged in the quiet of my room or the solitary world of nature. Traveling matched
me surprisingly well. I navigated my social requirements and then cocooned away to write my thoughts and make my reels. Though,
as my career had grown over the past two years, I’d been more in the public eye than I’d originally wanted.
No one really talked about how being a “rising star” can burn you out, especially when the favorite part of my job was the
story part. I enjoyed listening to stories and then re-creating them in my own way in my articles or inventing them from my
own imagination like my Katie on the Fly series.
“I s’pose you read Mrs. Lennox’s note?” Emily asked, entering the room with a garment bag in her arms.
I nodded. “Even though it means I’ll shock the masses with my attractive ankles.”
Emily’s laugh burst out as she pulled the summer confection of lace and satin from the bag and grinned, her brown eyes twinkling.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if nations haven’t crumbled over the look of a pair of fine ankles.”
Yep. Emily was definitely the best lady’s maid for me.
Forty-five minutes later, I slowly (being the operative word here) made my way to the drawing room since the hobble skirt style restricted my movements to baby steps. At least the color looked fine on me and brought out my hair and eyes, as Emily said. Which provided some consolation for the fact that running, dancing, and maybe even breathing were going to be in short supply. Attractive ankles couldn’t save me from mummification.
I felt like a silk and lace burrito.
“My Morning as an Edwardian Burrito.” Perfect title for an article.
With my Chicago-pizza-sized hat tilted to a “fashionable” slant—the food references just wouldn’t stop—my ridiculousness was
complete.
So much for Clue classiness.
Bring on Monty Python.
Everyone, except me, looked immaculate in their Edwardian attire as we gathered in the drawing room for Lady Lennox’s next
instruction. Well, everyone’s clothes looked immaculate. Mark’s smugness failed to look anything but annoying. And poor Mr. Logan’s nose was bandaged, and a purple
hue shone at the bridge with additional swelling and discoloration over each eye.
His linen suit was nice though. Brought out the blue... at the bridge of his nose.
“We’ve had a change of plans this morning.” Mrs. Lennox’s gaze swept the room. “Since the weather is expected to be very nice,
I thought we could learn about the importance of daily exercise during the Edwardian era as we walk to the nearby village
of Glenkirk. The fresh summer air is excellent for your constitution, and the village will allow you to do some shopping,
as the clerks are well aware of our visit.”
Well, giving the folks of Glenkirk a front row seat to this little Edwardian parade of personalities should be fun! And despite
the fact that I inwardly shivered a little at the idea of Mirren’s gaze delving back into my psyche, her warmth and genuine
interest fed something in my heart I didn’t fully understand.
I scanned the group again to gauge everyone’s reactions, and my gaze caught on Ana. Of course no outfit rivaled hers. Her
hat alone was big enough to land a plane, and her soft-pink gown was fitted to perfection over her ample curves. Ana was much
more than a cello. More like a double bass.
Miss Dupont showcased a day dress with a skirt much less fitted than mine, and I fought envy at the freedom of her stride as I hobbled along like the burrito I was, grateful for my parasol to balance my steps between the mummy-skirt and the platter-hat.
Our little entourage took the longer (and less steep) path to Glenkirk, creating a spectacle for a few passing sheep, a lone
cow, and a poor farmer who dropped his pipe right out of his mouth. As Mark kept with Mrs. Lennox and Miss Dupont at the front
of the group, I happily stayed in the back, taking in the absolutely gorgeous day.
The floral scents wafted on the warm breeze with such vibrancy I could almost taste them. Buttercups, daffodils, and some
beautiful blue flowers of the same delicate makeup. A few irises perfumed the air, and the world took on gorgeous hues of
gold and green and blue and white. Bright. Happy. I soaked them in. Embraced them all.
On a distant hill, a stark rush of purple slipped in between the golds.
My smile spread. Heather. Just as Grandpa described it. And he’d told a story about the flower too, but I couldn’t summon
it. How could a memory connect me to a place like this?
Mark had shifted farther back in the group as the walk continued, thankfully oblivious to my placement in line since he was
clearly speaking to someone via Bluetooth.
Way to get into the spirit of the Edwardian era!
Mrs. Lennox remarked on some historical features of Glenkirk with its excellent location on the longest loch in Mull. Fishing.
Commerce. A little piracy and some clan battles. Oh, this world held so many stories. They whispered in the breeze to me,
nudging me to linger.
Linger.
For some reason, the word took on extra strength, seizing my breath, and it wasn’t just because my mummifying gown squeezed
any excess out of my lungs. Scotland called for exploration, yes. But one of my grandpa’s favorite words rolled around in
my head.
Tarry.
Scotland called me to tarry... and the idea pressed in on my heart with the same mixture of terror and excitement as falling
in love. The external marvel, the internal memories, and the inexplicable longing.
An attack on all fronts, and I wasn’t equipped for the battle. Because everything kept calling me toward introspection, as
if all of those things promised to help ease an ache I’d never even been able to touch.
With my slow pace, I brought up the rear of the group, Mark just ahead of me, still talking on his phone. Mrs. Lennox brought
us to a stop at the entrance of the village near the edge of Loch na Keal to provide a little history lesson about the types
of boats used in fishing villages during the Edwardian era. Then folks began to disperse to their shops of choice.
I glanced out over the glimmering loch, attempting to ignore Mark’s conversation nearby, when a familiar jingling bell met
my ears.
My face went cold. I knew that sound.
The jingling bells came again, followed by the distinct call, “Get out of the way.”
I turned to see Kirsty barreling toward us, a wicked gleam in her eyes.
Definitely a pixie!
And Mark had no idea!
“Mark!”
He didn’t so much as turn.
I tried to take a step, but my skirt caught my attempt, so I hopped the four steps over to him. “Mark!”
I grabbed his arm.
He flinched and looked over at me, frown deepening as he plucked out his earpiece in time for me to point toward crazy Kirsty.
“Watch out!”
I should have considered his startle reflex. Truly. I should have. He tended toward exaggeration and overreactions, if the past few days (and my previous experience with him) gave any indication, but with the whole hopping-to-save-his-life scenario, his startle response wasn’t the first thing on my mind.
And so, as he stumbled back, arms raised in defense at the oncoming threat-on-wheels, he hit me in the chest.
Remember, I’m a sturdy girl, so normally I would have been able to steady myself.
Normally, I wouldn’t have been wearing the satin equivalent of cling wrap.
But with Mark’s excellent encouragement and Kirsty’s homicidal tendencies, I wobbled back toward the edge of the rock ledge
and... tipped right over.
The cold water caught me, stealing my breath. I attempted to raise my arms, but the tightness of the gown constricted my movements.
Weeds rose from the bottom and tangled in the newly added lace at the bottom of the skirt, snagging my attempt at escape.
I tried to paddle my legs, with what little movement I could, and raised my arms again, feeling the shoulder of the gown rip.
Sorry, Mrs. Lennox!
Sunlight glimmered from above, down to me like a beacon. I kicked at the water weeds, my boots weighing me down a little more.
And for the fourth time in my life, I wondered if this misadventure may prove my last.