Chapter 8
Cameron tugged at his starched collar, hating the way its sharp edge dug into his skin. It made him feel as though some brigand was pressing a blade to his throat and holding him hostage.
He wondered, not for the first time since arriving in London and changing his manner of dress, why the devil these English people seemed so fond of wearing uncomfortable clothes.
The men seemed stiff as boards in the confines of their tailored suits, while it appeared as though the women could scarcely breathe in the merciless corsets they were laced into.
Collectively, the lot of them could barely walk without wincing.
They could barely even bend at the waist sufficiently to lower themselves into seated positions.
Cameron snickered to himself, thinking of the orders of monks who were known to whip themselves or wear clothing made from rough and scratchy materials.
They did these things to demonstrate their humility before God, from what he’d been given to understand.
He’d always dismissed such behavior as backwards and outlandish, the sort of foolhardy and half-crazed notion that isolated sects would come up with in their solitude.
How, then, could this same behavior be explained in the middle of one of the largest and most supposedly-civilized cities in the world? At least the monks did it in service to something higher. What did these stuck-up English do it for other than to make themselves look and feel more important?
Cameron strolled the streets (well, “strolled” might have been the wrong term given how damnably tight his trousers were fitted) and glanced at the common folk in the alleys and gutters.
In that moment, he felt he would have gladly traded places with any of them; their clothes may have been filthy, but at least they hung on them properly instead of cinching painfully.
What’s more, none of them were expected to marry for the good of their “clans.” They simply followed the dictates of their hearts.
They may have been poor, but in that way, at least, they were free.
He knew it was silly of him to indulge in the fantasy that their lot in life was better than his own, given the fact that many of them would labor to their deaths in workhouses, go to bed hungry, or sleep on the hard cobblestones beneath the pitiless elements.
He felt slightly ashamed of himself for letting such a stupid notion carry him away, even for a moment. In truth, the concept of such people was relatively new to him. There were peasants where he came from as well, but none of them went without shelter or having their basic needs met.
For they were still members of the Wallace clan, and none who swore their fealty to the clan were neglected or condemned to lives of misery. No matter how well or poorly the clan fared, they took care of their own as best they could. That was where their true strength was: In honor and in loyalty.
What, then, do these English people honor? Cameron wondered. What are they loyal to besides themselves? Their monarchs remained sequestered behind the walls of the palace, indifferent, it seemed, to any who did not have a “lord” or “lady” before their name.
He felt his revulsion for this soot-grimed and unnatural place growing by the day. He longed to return home at once.
Except that he had no desire to do so alone.
Cameron had set his sights upon Lady Cora, and now he found himself consumed with a fervor he’d never felt before.
Perhaps it was that she stood out so beautifully from her so-called “peers” in high society—a lush and gorgeous blossom amid a pile of weeds.
The thought of wooing any of the other women he’d met since his arrival sickened him to his core.
He could not stand to be around them for more than a few moments before his head began to ache and his skin itched fiercely as though afflicted with some rash.
There was far more to her than that, though.
His thoughts in this regard were difficult for him to properly organize, but he got the distinct impression that each of them had never met anyone quite like the other.
There was an avid curiosity in their interactions, in the way they looked at each other, as though they both sensed some unlikely unspoken kinship which, having been experienced, could not be denied.
Neither of them had wanted to be at that silly soiree, but both had decided to attend anyway, and, in doing so, she had quite literally fallen into his arms.
Cameron had never believed much in lofty intangibles like “fate,” but now he felt positively seized within its grip. What’s more, he was eager to let it carry him wherever it would, as long as the journey involved Cora Weatherington.
Which was why he was on his way to the opera.
He’d browbeaten Carstairs relentlessly about where he might definitely find Lady Cora so that he might make another attempt at courting her.
Carstairs had held back for the better part of an hour, trying to convince Cameron that he had no idea what he was doing with regard to pursuing a proper English lady and that he ought to simply leave well enough alone for the moment until he received an invitation to another social event.
“That,” Carstairs insisted, “will be the proper time for you to declare your intentions as a suitor where a young lady is concerned.”
“But there is every chance that she will not attend such an event again,” Cameron replied. “Not after what happened the last time. Especially since, by all accounts, she disdains such affairs.”
“Then she is not a fit recipient of your intentions, sir, if I may be so bold, and you ought to leave off of her this instant. Your father sent you here to court and marry a rather specific sort of woman, as I understand it…”
“As I understand it,” Cameron interrupted hotly, “I was sent here to marry an English noblewoman of my choosing, and I have chosen her. You have been instructed to assist me in this endeavor, have you not?”
At last, Carstairs rolled his eyes and admitted that there was every possibility Lady Cora might attend the opera that night. Unlike society parties, the opera was seen by her as having artistic merit and therefore not being a waste of her time.
“Having said that,” Carstairs cautioned, “she might just as well resent your intrusion upon her evening of culture.”
Cameron was fully prepared to take that risk.
Cameron had rejected Carstairs’s offer to arrange for a carriage, preferring to walk to the opera house instead.
He was growing increasingly restless; he missed wandering the moors and valleys of his homeland, and his legs were beginning to feel idle.
He thought he might also use the stroll as a means of familiarizing himself with the city a bit more.
He’d ended up regretting that decision somewhat as he looked around at the dirt and squalor.
When he drew near enough to the opera house that he began to see members of high society, the sharp distinction between their clothes and airs and those of the commoners around them sent pangs through Cameron’s heart.
Pangs which intensified as he spotted Lady Cora handing out alms and purchasing flowers from a girl with a dirty face.
Hardly any of her peers were doing likewise. Indeed, the vast majority of them seemed determined not to notice the cold and hungry people around them. Cora, however, looked each of the beggars in the eye and gave them a smile.
So not only does she stand out from this crowd in terms of being disdainful of their affectations, Cameron thought, but she has a kind and generous heart as well. Truly, I have chosen well!
The man standing next to her—who, Cameron surmised, was her brother—frowned at her.
“Put your purse away before one of these scoundrels snatches it and runs off!” he snapped.
“I have other purses,” she sniffed in response, “and other coins to fill them with if it comes to that. If a man is so desperate in his position as to be compelled to run off with my purse, then I have no doubt he will spend its contents in more worthy ways than I might have.”
“Oh, you are an empty-headed ninny!” her brother grumbled. “What sort of opinion is that for a proper lady to have?”
“I neither know nor care which opinions are appropriate for a ‘proper lady,’” Cora retorted, “only a properly decent person.”
If Cameron had not been in love with her before, he found that he certainly was now. Her defiance of convention—her preference to show goodness and charity with her deeds, to look after those who could not look after themselves—told him that she would be a worthy addition to the Wallace clan.
Before he could approach her, though, the doors of the opera house opened and the well-dressed attendees began to file inside.
Cameron hastened to catch up. He knew that it would be a dreadful mistake for him to raise his voice and call out to her. That would surely brand him as an outsider, attracting entirely the wrong sort of attention (and no doubt embarrassing her in the process).
Still, he needed to think of some way to ensure that he would be in a position to speak to her once inside.
Cameron purchased his ticket and kept his gaze keenly fixed upon Cora. When an usher approached him and offered to escort him to his seat, Cameron pressed several coins into the lad’s palm.
“Here. I need you to make sure I will be seated next to that lady there.”
The usher was clearly grateful for the money but looked flustered nevertheless.
“I’d love to, sir, only it’d be a tricky thing to arrange.
They have been invited by Lady Hepplewhite to join her in her private box, you see.
So Lady Hepplewhite would have to invite you likewise, sir, if you take my meaning. ”
Cameron nodded. “I see. Thank you.”
He took his eyes off Cora, searching the room for Lady Hepplewhite instead.
When he found her, he went to her immediately, pushing past the other people who stood in his way.
They did not appreciate being shoved, and a few of the fellows even objected aloud.
However, none of them seemed especially eager to openly challenge the tall and muscular Scotsman.
“Lady Hepplewhite!” he greeted her enthusiastically, bending at the waist and kissing her hand with all the gentility he could summon. “How delightful to see you again!”
“Oh, how charming you are for a Scottish fellow!” she tittered. “One always pictures your sort storming across a battlefield half-naked, drenched in mud and blood…yet you appear to be practically domesticated!”
Her companions laughed, and Cameron forced himself to join them, though the injury to his pride was grievous indeed.
“They tell me you have a private box, Lady Hepplewhite,” he said. “Might I join you? It seems the best way for one to see what is happening onstage.”
“It is, in fact, the worst vantage point for such a thing,” Lord Falsham spoke up indignantly.
“One does not sit in the box to see but to be seen. But then, a man of your considerable stature likely has no difficulties with that, eh, wot?” He let out a sniveling laugh, elbowing the fellow next to him in the ribs.
“Of course you may join us, Mister Wallace!” Hepplewhite giggled. “Why, I am sure we shall have a simply marvelous time!”
Cameron knew well enough why she had chosen to invite him.
As Falsham had pointed out, the box was meant for those within it to be seen and appreciated by those sitting below, and she probably thought it would be tremendously amusing for her to be seen with a wild Scotsman.
No doubt she would take great pleasure in relating all of his social missteps to her society friends the next day.
Not that it mattered, if it would allow him to be closer to Cora.