“No, my lord, not a witch,” Adelaide said quietly, coming into the bedchamber, “more like a girl who is very frightened to be herself.”
That drew Ruthven up. “Is this true, Frances?”
“Leave be, Papa,” Frances said, sending Adelaide a wounded look. One tended to forget that Adelaide was so very perceptive. “The earl proposed to a mouse and that is what he will marry. I shan’t disillusion him.”
Ruthven gave her a long, searching look. “Very well, Frances. I shall say no more about it.”
“And you won’t say anything to the earl, Papa!”
“No, I won’t.”
When her father had left, Frances turned to Adelaide. “Is it time?”
“Yes, love. Frances, don’t cheat yourself out of what can rightfully be yours.”
Frances merely nodded, beyond words. “I shall be along in just a moment, Adelaide.”
When she was finally alone, Frances walked to the window and gazed out. The day was gray, cold, and it had begun to drizzle.
If I were of a romantic disposition, she thought dispassionately, I should keep a journal. And I should write in it that I am beginning a new life and that I am deliriously happy.
She meant to giggle at her foolishness, but instead, it was a sob that broke from her throat.
The Reverend Mr. George MacLeod, a longtime friend of the Earl of Ruthven, presided over the ceremony. The two men had spent many satisfying hours arguing the merits of Presbyterianism versus the Church of England. MacLeod thought the English groom was polite, a well-bred young gentleman. When Frances finally entered the drawing room, he saw the earl’s expression change. Now, MacLeod thought, he looked about as happy as a dead trout. His eyes went to Frances, and widened. Good gracious, he thought, stunned. She looked like a nightmare, and miserable to boot. What the devil was going on here? What had happened to his bright, laughing Frances? He knew this was an arranged marriage, but he’d had no idea that ... He shot a questioning look at Ruthven, but Alexander was smiling benignly.
The words were spoken and he blessed the couple.
The wedding breakfast was less festive than a funeral.
The Reverend Mr. MacLeod, who had held Frances on his knee when she was two years old, managed to catch her alone after she’d changed into traveling clothes. She looked sullen and pale. Where had she gotten those wretched spectacles? What was he to say to her?
“Good-bye, my dear,” he said, and lightly kissed her forehead. “I will pray for you and your new husband.”
“I should certainly appreciate that, sir,” Frances said, squinting up at him. “In fact, a bolt of well-placed lightning at this moment would be most welcome.”
“You marry against your will, Frances?”
“No,” she said, seeing clearly that he was worried for her. She saw her father frowning at her from the corner of her eye. She saw her husband impatiently slapping his gloves against his thigh.
“Good-bye, sir,” she said, and stepping to her tiptoes, kissed him on the cheek.
Frances was thankful for the spectacles. They hid her brimming eyes. Viola, Clare, Sophia, and Adelaide each hugged her. She reached her father.
“Frances,” he said very quietly, “trust me, my girl. And trust yourself. You are strong.”
“Yes, Papa.” She took one last look around the hall. She wondered silently if she would ever see Kilbracken again. She followed her husband out of the castle. She eyed the closed carriage for a moment with dread. Then she turned and waved toward all the people she’d lived with for nineteen years. Doris, who had baked her wedding cake, was dabbing her eyes with the corner of her apron.
“Frances,” Hawk said sharply, his hand on the open carriage door. “We must be on our way now.”
6
Claret is the liquor for boys;
port for men;
But he who aspires to be a hero must
drink brandy.