In Praise of Younger Men (4 page)

Harriet’s first glimpse of the Scottish capital city was that of an ancient stone fortress perched high upon a mountain of rock reaching nearly to the clouds. Besieged, destroyed, and rebuilt several times over, a castle had stood on the site for the past eight centuries at least, playing host to the likes of Mary Queen of Scots, even Robert the Bruce.

Beneath this lofty cragged crown ran a mile-long stretch of road called the High Street, wide enough for five carriages to ride abreast, lined by tall stone buildings with slate roofs, some six, even ten stories high. Like a formation of watchful soldiers, they towered above the small coach carrying Geoffrey, Devorgilla, and Harriet past the city gates—Robbie perched eagerly in Harriet’s lap, wagging his wiry tail at every passerby.

High above their heads, tall chimneys puffed out billowing clouds of coal smoke that had given the city its nickname of “Auld Reekie.” Ladies leaned out windows. Boys and dogs chased one another around the Mercat Cross. Everywhere they looked, there was something of interest to be seen.

For Harriet, who had never gone farther than an afternoon carriage ride from home, the city was like a vast world of adventures just waiting to be had. From almost the first moment after they’d departed Rascarrel the day before, the sun had come out with glorious ceremony, banishing the dull, colorless clouds that had plagued the skies nearly endlessly over the past weeks. Spring was approaching. Harriet decided to take it as a sign that she was doing what she was meant to, coming to Edinburgh to seek her future. If only that thought could somehow ease the bittersweet memory of Tristan standing before her in that cave, telling her the words every girl longed to hear.

I love you.

How angry he’d been that last time she’d seen him. He had left for the city without even saying good-bye, refusing Geoffrey’s offer to accompany them in the coach, opting instead to ride to Edinburgh alone on one of the horses from the Rascarrel stable. Didn’t he realize she was doing this for him? Couldn’t he see that if she had her choice, they would be traveling to Edinburgh together to share the happy news of their betrothal with her father? Every waking moment, since the moment Tristan had returned with Geoffrey to Rascarrel, Harriet had fought the battle of her head against her heart. It would be easy, so,
so
easy to throw caution to the wind and marry Tristan. Everything in her heart told her to do just that . . . but then she remembered the words of her aunt, of how she had spent her life haunted by the memory of the man she had loved, who had died for loving her. Harriet knew she would rather spend four lifetimes without Tristan than endure one waiting every day for some peril to befall them. She could only hope that someday he would realize the sacrifice she made for him.

When they arrived at the Rascarrel town house on Charlotte Square, no one was more surprised to see the children of Baron Rascarrel standing on the doorstep than Baron Rascarrel himself.

As a young man in his twenties, Hugh Drynan Baron Rascarrel had been a gent of the city, an artist struggling to pay the rent painting portraits of wealthy patrons while dreaming of the day when his true heart’s work, landscapes of his native Galloway, might find their own niche among the exhibitions at the renowned galleries.

It had been a bright spring day much like the present one when he’d gone to a local bookshop seeking inspiration nearly three decades before. Turning a corner, he’d collided, literally, with a woman he thought must surely be a fairy nymph. All fiery red locks and sparkling green eyes, she had cast a spell about him with her smile. Like a dream come true, this vision with the name Viola Macquair Maxwell had asked him if he’d like to take a walk with her around the park.

A fortnight later they were wed. It made no matter to Sir Hugh if Viola had chosen him for his age or the color of his breeches. He’d been utterly captivated.

Now in his early fifties, his graying hair brushed forward in the style of the day, Hugh Drynan’s interests in art had turned from that of creating to collecting. His was said to be one of the finest collections in the kingdom, so fine, in fact, he’d recently received a request from the Prince Regent to view it.

“Harriet?” the baron asked upon seeing his only daughter standing smiling on his doorstep when he’d only just left her a few days earlier in Galloway. “Has something happened?”

And then he recognized the grin of his long-absent son behind her. “Geoffrey! Lad, you’ve come back!” He threw out his arms to them both.

“This is a surprise,” he said as he ushered the party of them inside. They withdrew to the parlor where the baron immediately began to quiz Geoffrey about the wars, the Continent, Napoleon, anything to fill the gap of the past years apart while Harriet went off to the kitchen to brew them all some tea.

“... and there I was in Brussels,” Geoffrey was saying as she brought in the pot and set it on the table, “enjoying a nice bit of French brandy at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball when I looked across the room and spotted Tristan of all people dancing with the duchess’s daughter. We spent the rest of the night catching up. It was like he’d never been away. And then, suddenly, within hours we were marching to battle, fighting side by side. It was all over nearly as quickly as it had begun, and we were coming home.”

The baron nodded. “Good lad, Tristan Carmichael. Glad to hear he’s made a life for himself after the tragedy of his parents’ accident. Where is he now?”

“He’s here in Edinburgh actually. Come to see his godfather. He’s planning to reside in Galloway eventually, once things there have been settled.”

“Settled?” questioned Sir Hugh. “Is something the matter?”

Geoffrey glanced quickly at Harriet, who was setting out the cup of tea she’d just poured. She frowned at him. “You might as well know, Father, for you’ll no doubt hear about it later. Tristan has asked me to marry him.”

“Splendid!” The baron beamed. “I hope you said yes.”

“Actually, no. I refused him.”

“What? Why . . . ?” And then he realized. “Oh, yes, the prophecy.” He knew the story well, but it had been a blessing to him, not a curse, for it had brought him the gift of twelve years with his beloved wife.

Sir High looked closely at Harriet. “You love Tristan. You have since you were a wee lassie.”

Harriet stared at her father, dumbfounded that he should know something she’d thought only known to her.

“You were devastated when he left Galloway, Harriet. A father can sense these things about his only daughter.”

Actually, it had been Devorgilla who’d told him, but Harriet need not know any better. “But certainly a man born the same day as you should be safe enough.”

“That is the same thing Tristan said, but what if it is not?” Harriet left the tea tray and crossed the room to the window, blowing on the brew in her cup to cool it as she watched the traffic pass by. “What if some misfortune were to befall him? We would never know until it is too late. And I would never forgive myself if Tristan came to harm because of me.”

The baron nodded, unable to argue against his daughter’s unhappy logic. “She makes a good point.” He let go a sigh. “Chin up, my dear. I’m sure all will work out in the end. It always does.”

Harriet, however, found little comfort in his words.

After they shared a makeshift supper of cold ham and crusty bread, Geoffrey and the baron went off to the nearest pub for a celebratory tankard of ale. Devorgilla excused herself, claiming a headache from their journey, and retired above stairs for a nap. Harriet was thus left alone for the afternoon to sit and ponder how best to find herself a husband in less than a fortnight.

Where on earth to begin?

The knocker on the front door sounded at almost the same moment. Harriet went to the hall and opened the door onto the greeting smile of an older woman carrying the most enormous muff Harriet had ever seen. Only after Robbie began barking at the thing, and it hissed, did Harriet realize it was a cat.

“Good day to you!” the lady’s melodious voice rang out. “I am Lady Harrington. Lord H and I hold the house there on the corner just across the square. We had despaired of meeting anyone new this season at all, but then I saw your coach, saw that you had baggage and meant to stay, and I knew I had to come right over to meet you.”

She was like a swirl of new spring air, all floral and brisk and lively. Harriet invited the woman inside, cat and all, asked the kitchen maid to bring tea, and settled in for a visit. In truth, she was grateful for the diversion. All Harriet had been able to think about was the fact that Tristan was there, in that same city, possibly even on that same street, and she could not see him. In fact, as angry as he had been the last time she’d seen him, he likely would never want to see her again.

For all her formidable figure, Lady Harrington was quite fashionable with her salt-and-pepper close-cut curls graced by a stylish bonnet. Lucinda, as she asked Harriet to call her, spent a pleasant hour chatting about the comings and goings of most every family in the neighborhood, how Lord and Lady So-and-so’s son had lost a fortune at the gaming tables the week before, or that the Earl of Whatever’s mistress lived in a flat in the small house off the lane. She seemed to know everyone’s business and Harriet soon found herself likening her to a vibrant butterfly, flitting about from flower to flower, making certain to stop at each one lest she should miss out on something important.

“Have you children of your own?” Harriet asked when she finally managed to get in a word.

“I have two daughters, Wilhelmina and Rosalind, now grown and moved away.” The viscountess sighed. “I devoted my life to seeing them both successfully wed, one to an earl, the other to a marquess, no less. They are my finest accomplishments.”

It soon became apparent that now that her daughters were wed, Lady H was quite at loose ends with what to do with herself. As such, she was always on the lookout for new opportunities to employ her matchmaking expertise.

“So, my dear, I saw you arriving with a handsome young man this morning.”

Harriet poured them each a fresh cup of hyson. Her only experience in female
socializing had been with Devorgilla or the occasional call to the vicar’s wife, so she fell into conversation with the fascinating viscountess quite easily. “Yes, we are very excited because my brother, Geoffrey, has just returned from the Peninsula.”

“The Peninsula! I declare, how exciting!” The viscountess chuckled to herself. “For a moment, when I first saw him, I thought he might be your husband.”

Harriet handed Lady Harrington her tea. “Oh, no, my lady. I am not married.”

“Betrothed, then?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Significantly attached?”

Harriet simply shook her head.

The viscountess’s eyes lit up like a bonfire. “My heavens! How can it be that such a lovely girl hasn’t yet found her way to the altar?” She answered before Harriet ever could. “But, of course, that must be the reason for your visit to the city, isn’t it? To find yourself a husband?”

Harriet chewed her lip. Was her desperation so obvious? She looked at Lady Harrington. She’d only just met the woman but something about her told Harriet she could confide in her. “I’ll admit I had rather hoped to meet some eligible gentlemen ...”

“I knew it!” The viscountess clapped her hands with delight.

“But I’ve a slight problem,” Harriet confessed.

“What, dear? No dowry?”

“No, I am well dowered.”

“A scandal from your past then?”

“Indeed no. It is just that . . . for reasons I cannot go into now ... I have less than a fortnight in which to find myself a husband.”

For anyone else, this might have been a deterrent. But for Lucinda, Lady Harrington, Matchmaker Extraordinaire, it was little more than a challenge—a challenge she was all too eager to accept.

“Well, then, we’ll have to act quickly. And I know just the person to help you.”

“You do? Who?”

“
Me
! I am acquainted with every family of good breeding in town, and even some of not-so-good breeding, if you know what I mean.” She fished inside her beaded reticule, taking out an ivory-covered tablet and pencil. “I shall make a few notations . . . tell me, dear, do you prefer light, or dark?”

Harriet was lost. “Tea?”

“No, dear, suitors! Do you prefer your gentlemen blond-or dark headed?”

“Oh, well, dark, I suppose . . . but not too dark. Sort of an ash brown.”

The viscountess nodded, scribbling. “Tall, or closer to your own height?”

“Tall.”

“Of a good build?”

“Yes.”

“A well-established man who has his own fortune . . . preferably titled ...”

“. . . and with eyes the color of the bluest sky.”

At the viscountess’s curious stare, Harriet realized she’d just described Tristan. “Truly, my lady, I don’t think I would know until I saw the man for myself.”

“Indeed. And I know just the place to do it.”

Harriet looked at her, waiting.

“The Annual Assembly. It is hosted by the Society of Edinburgh Ladies, of which I am a founding member. ‘Tis this coming Friday at the Assembly Rooms on George Street, just down the street from here. Invitations went out weeks ago, but I will make certain you receive one this very afternoon.”

Harriet brightened. “Oh, Lady Harrington, could you? That would be wonderful! I honestly didn’t know what I was going to do. I’m afraid I haven’t much experience with this sort of thing.”

The viscountess smiled. “Tut, tut, dear. Just leave that to me. By week’s end, you’ll have more acquaintanceship than you ever dreamed possible.”

She stood then, taking up her cat muff from where it lay snoozing on the settee. “I’m off now. Other calls to make, you know. The days just don’t have enough hours in them.” She started for the door to leave. “Now, if you are in need of a gown for the assembly, you must go posthaste to Madame Angelique’s shop on Rose Street. She is without a doubt the finest modiste in town. Comes from France, of course. All the good ones do. Her girls can measure you up and deliver something splendid in time for Friday evening. Just tell Madame I sent you. Oh, and don’t forget to ask her to include your red petticoat, dear, just in case. You never know if you might need it.”