The Scottish Bride (Sherbrooke Brides 6)

“But only if he is still breathing,” Tysen said, smiled at all the ladies again, and left the drawing room. Mary Rose could swear that she heard Meggie’s voice just outside the door. Actually, she wanted to run after him and leap on him and kiss him until he was silly with it.

She drew a deep breath and said, “Ladies, I very much admire my husband. He is a wonderful man.”

Mrs. Bittley said after a moment, very much aware that the other ladies were no longer quite so ready to hurl themselves into the attack, “It did not take the vicar all that long a time to convince you to marry him. He wasn’t gone for any time at all. It was very quickly done, too quickly done. Evidently you did something quite severe to him. He isn’t what he was. We will have to study this. There is a mystery here. We will all hope that your English will improve when you have lived here a while.”

/> “Or perhaps,” said Mary Rose, “some of you will begin to speak with the soft lilt of Scotland, perhaps a bit less bite and clip in your speech. What do you think?”

Mrs. Bittley harrumphed. Mary Rose wondered if she and Mrs. Priddie were related.

Mrs. Tate, the very young, quite pretty wife of the local blacksmith, Teddie Tate, cocked her head to one side, her lovely black hair sliding across her cheek, and said, “I believe I would like lessons in a lilt. What do you think, Glenda? You haven’t said anything at all. Come, tell us, what do you think about learning to lilt?”

Glenda Strapthorpe, just turned nineteen and well aware that she was the prettiest young lady in these parts, actually, in many other parts as well, turned her lovely pale face toward Mary Rose. “I believe a lilt would sound terribly common, Bethie. Mayhap vulgar. Rather like red hair, I think.”

Bethie Tate wasn’t certain what to do with that, and so she said quickly, “Mrs. Sherbrooke, do tell us about Kildrummy Castle. Just imagine, Reverend Sherbrooke is now Lord Barthwick. I wonder what his brother, the earl of Northcliffe, thinks about that.”

24

Northcliffe Hall

Near New Romney

THE EARL OF Northcliffe, Douglas Sherbrooke, was reading Tysen’s short note at that moment. He finished reading and looked blankly toward the fireplace, which was quite empty since it was warm out today. He read it again, then one more time.

“I don’t believe this,” he said, and looked up to see his son Jason peering around his estate room door.

“What don’t you believe, Papa?”

“Come on in, Jason. It’s time for your chess lesson, isn’t it? It’s a letter from your uncle Tysen. He’s gotten married. She is Scottish and her name is Mary Rose. He, er, sounds quite happy, very lighthearted, indeed. Quite unlike himself, actually. He writes about how Meggie dressed like a boy and played his tiger all the way to Edinburgh. He said he nearly expired on the spot when she was unmasked, so to speak. I wonder why he didn’t write of this when he wrote before to take Oliver away from me.”

Jason sniggered behind his hand, then cleared his throat and stared down at his boots. His father grew very quiet. “Did you know what she would do?”

“No, really, not quite, Papa. Just the idea of it is worthy of note, don’t you think?”

“No, I don’t think.” Douglas knew his beautiful son, knew he was more stubborn that a stoat, knew that he’d never get any more out of him, particularly if it would get his cousin in trouble. He said, “Thank God she came to no harm. An idiot thing for Meggie to do. They have just arrived back at the vicarage.”

“You said that Uncle Tysen found a vicaress in Scotland?”

“Hmmm,” said Douglas and tapped the letter with a fingertip. “Tysen was smiling when he wrote this, I’m sure of it. I can see him smiling, laughing, his mouth all wide. Maybe even dancing a bit, at least his feet are moving. What is going on here? I think perhaps we should all pay a visit to the vicarage. What do you think, Jason? We could return the boys’ clothes.”

“Do you think she’s ugly on the outside?”

“Why would you say that?”

“I overheard you saying to Mama once that Leo’s mother was close to an abomirat—”

“An abomination?” Oh, Lord, Douglas thought, he was continually forgetting that children’s ears were so sharp they could hear a mouse eating cheese in the corner of the pantry.

“Yes, that’s it. And I’ve heard Uncle Tysen say that the flesh isn’t important, that it’s what is in the soul, and in the heart, that makes a person ugly or beautiful.”

Douglas stared at the small human being who had come from his loins, and had excellent hearing, and very likely had looked up “abomination” in the dictionary. “Yes,” he said slowly, “your uncle is perfectly right. We shall just have to see, won’t we? Listen to me, Jason—you will not ever say the word ‘abomination’ in your new aunt’s hearing, do you understand me?”

“Yes, Papa, but do you think she will be as, er, unpretty as Leo’s mama was? Although, of course, I don’t remember her.”

“I have no thoughts whatsoever on the subject. Forget it, Jason.”

“Yes, Papa, but it will be difficult.”

“You’re strong. You can do it.” However, Douglas found himself clearly remembering Melinda Beatrice, Tysen’s first wife. He remembered that Tysen had believed her a goddess, the perfect wife for a vicar, his soul mate, his helpmeet—and he had been quite wrong. He winced. Well, Tysen had been very young, much too young to have his brains working properly. And any joy, any full-heartedness, that he’d had, that twit Melinda Beatrice had crushed right out of him. But now Tysen wasn’t very young, and he seemed changed, and it was for the better. God be praised.