Chapter Seven #2
Removing his hat, Harry stepped into the house. Monty was standing at attention in the sitting room to the left. Lady Maclean was not present. Her daughter Miss Minerva was playing the hostess and arranging the chairs to Lady Emma’s comfort.
Miss Portia had not joined the others in the sitting room but was climbing the staircase off the hall as if to escape.
She was stopped by her mother.
Lady Maclean came to the top of the stairs, her blonde curls tucked into a lace cap, a cape of the same lace around her shoulders and her hands in fussy lace, fingerless mittens.
Her daughter froze like a deer caught in a hunter’s sights.
There were some whispers between them. Harry strained to hear what was being said, and then Lady Maclean saw him.
A broad smile of pleasure crossed her face.
“Why, Colonel Chattan, what a pleasure.” She started down the stairs and was such a force of nature, Miss Portia had no choice but to turn and go ahead of her.
Lady Maclean reached the bottom step. “I’m so happy you have called. I know my daughter Minerva is as well—”
She broke off with a frown of disapproval.
Jasper, that woebegone hound, had returned from his nosey investigation of the barn. He was now on the hunt for Monty and had tracked him here. Sniffing the doorstep, he walked into the house, so enthusiastic his body seemed to be wagging his tail.
“Out.” Lady Maclean punctuated the word with a finger pointed to the door.
Jasper gave her a big dog grin and did not obey. After all, Monty never made him obey.
“I want that dog out of here,” Lady Maclean ordered.
Monty still stood at attention. He’d not moved a muscle, not even for his cherished dog. It was Harry who shooed Jasper out and closed the door.
“I can’t stand the beasts. So uncouth, so filthy and annoying,” Lady Maclean said. “I didn’t know you had a dog, Colonel Chattan. I hope I didn’t offend you.”
“You didn’t, my lady. The dog is not mine,” Harry answered.
“Not yours?” she repeated faintly, and then her face drained of color as she realized the implications. Slowly, she turned to the sitting room.
Monty put back his shoulders, trying to look his best. “Good day to you, my lady.” His voice shook slightly. He’d known he would not be welcome.
“You haven’t changed,” Lady Maclean said with a sniff. “Always with the hounds.”
For a second, Monty appeared flummoxed; his expression was that of an officer losing the battlefield—and it made Harry angry.
“He has a champion pack of dogs,” Harry lied audaciously. “The envy of not only Scotland but England as well.”
Lady Maclean smiled her disbelief. She entered the sitting room and took a seat on the room’s settee.
“Please, sit here, Colonel,” she said, patting the seat next to hers.
Minerva, take the chair next to the colonel—” she started, but stopped as Lady Emma plopped herself into the indicated chair without so much as a by-your-leave.
Monty still stood, anxious and ill at ease.
“Please, sit here, General,” Miss Portia said, directing him to a chair across from her mother.
Harry knew she had not intended to stay.
She’d hovered by the door but had now apparently decided to champion Monty’s cause and counter her mother’s rudeness.
Harry silently applauded her. She’d saved him from having to make a stand that would be doubly harsh.
A tray of tea and slices of bread and butter was carried in by a rosy-cheeked maid.
“Place the tray on this table, Glennis,” Mrs. Maclean said, indicating the table closest to her, and began pouring tea.
Outside, Jasper barked. He had discovered the sitting room window and leaped in the air to let Monty know he was outside. His ears flapped in the breeze from his effort. The poor dog couldn’t understand he wasn’t welcome, much like Monty.
Harry helped his hostess pass the cups and saucers brimming with hot, strong tea, using the opportunity to place himself in front of Miss Portia as often as possible. She was determined to ignore him. Her actions didn’t make sense. She was kind to Monty. Why couldn’t she be more open to him?
Not once did he consider the fault might lie with Miss Portia. He’d learn to read people quickly and she was not one for airs like her mother or—
“Bread and butter?” Lady Emma said, lifting her nose at the offered refreshments. “How quaint.” She held her portion in one hand as if afraid to take a bite.
“How delicious,” Harry countered, and it was. The butter was fresh and the bread still warm. Monty had shoved all of his in his mouth with one bite.
“So, are you enjoying your visit to our corner of the world, Colonel?” Miss Minerva asked.
“I am,” Harry said. “I don’t know why the Scots are considered such dour people. You all have been welcoming.”
“That’s because none of us in this room are Scottish,” Lady Maclean said with a twitter at what she perceived as her own cleverness. “Lady Emma’s line is English, as is mine.”
“I would rather be anything but Scottish,” Lady Emma said.
“Then how did you arrive in Glenfinnan?” Harry had to ask.
“Father bought this estate. He loves the sport here. Fishing, hunting. I can’t wait to return to London,” Lady Emma said.
“And we were victims of circumstance,” Lady Maclean said, heaving a long-suffering sigh. “My late husband, God rest his soul, was knighted for serving his country.”
That had been luck, Harry thought. He looked over at Monty.
They both knew the true story. Black Jack had been in India and rescued the daughter of an officer in the East India Company from being kidnapped.
It was an adventurous tale, although most serving with Black Jack knew he was the reason the girl had almost been grabbed by slavers.
They’d been in a lovers’ tryst. He wondered if the daughters thought their father a hero.
Miss Portia answered his question by saying, “He was a rogue, Mother. A rogue.” The words had just burst out of her as if any hint of untruth was unbearable to her.
“You are speaking of your father,” Lady Maclean chastised.
“I’m speaking of my sire, Mother. But he was never a father.”
“Oh dear,” Lady Emma responded in an amused tone. “May I please have some more bread and butter?”
“She is jesting, Lady Emma,” Lady Maclean said. “Aren’t you, Portia?” This was an unspoken command for Portia to mind her manners, but Portia Maclean was a rebel. She wasn’t afraid to call things as they really were. She ignored the command by suddenly becoming interested in what was in her teacup.
Her sister jumped into the sudden void of conversation by saying, “I understand it doesn’t grow truly wintry in Glenfinnan until around mid-January. Is that true, Lady Emma?”
“Yes, the days are mostly rainy but the temperature is generally mild until then,” Her Ladyship replied. “I don’t mind a bit of nip in the air.”
Lady Maclean started on about how perfect London weather was, but Harry was not interested in conversation or anyone else in the room. He couldn’t take his eyes off Portia Maclean.
He knew she was aware of him.
When she thought the conversation had gone on, she slid a glance in his direction, noticed that his focus was completely on her.
She started to turn away and then stopped herself.
She met his gaze with a level one of her own.
Her eyes were more blue than gray. Clear eyes that didn’t flinch from what was honest.
And then she looked away.
But Harry found himself unable to do so.
Her profile intrigued him. He liked her straight nose and flawless skin. Hers was a classic beauty such as that which could be found in Greek sculpture, a beauty that was often overlooked because of its serenity.
His musing was interrupted by a knock on the door.