Mary Fran and Matthew

The emotions flitting through the earl’s gaze weren’t hard to name: relief, wariness, and bewilderment. “Travel on if you must, but my questions are about your cousin.”

The words were parted with carefully, with a studied neutrality that fooled Matthew not one whit. “Break Augusta’s heart, and the same promise applies, Balfour. She’s been through enough. Too much, in fact, and all she wants is to be left in peace.”

“No, that is not all she wants.” Balfour spoke softly, humor and sadness both in his tone. “Neither is it what she deserves, but that’s a discussion for another time. I was wondering if you could tell me the other things.” He ran a hand through thick dark hair, took another sip of his drink, and commenced staring out the mullioned window at gardens he’d had years to study.

“What other things?”

“The small things… What is Augusta’s favorite flower? How did she come by her love of drawing? Is she partial to sweets? Does she prefer chess or cribbage or backgammon?”

The personal things. Abruptly, Matthew recognized a fellow suffering swain, particularly in the earl’s mention of the difference between what a lady wants and what she deserves.

“I could use a game of cribbage myself, my lord, and perhaps we’d best keep that decanter handy.”

“Never a bad idea.” Balfour crossed the room to rummage in a desk drawer. “Turnabout is fair play, too, you know.” He slapped a deck of cards on the desk, then a carved cribbage board.

“Turnabout?”

“You have questions, Daniels. About Mary Fran. As long as you don’t ask me to violate a confidence—the woman has a wicked temper and very accurate aim with a riding crop—I’ll answer them.”

Matthew fetched the decanter and prepared to lose at least one game of cribbage. He’d lost two—only one intentionally—before Balfour asked Matthew to fetch some sensitive documents back to him here in the Highlands posthaste.

Perhaps that was fitting, that Matthew be given a chance to torment himself with another glimpse of Mary Frances, and to contribute to the happiness of others—his own being a lost cause.

***

“Where are you going?” Fiona asked the question as she tried to descend from the hayloft while holding her kitten, Spats. Mr. Daniels’s horse didn’t take exception to the company, but then, the horse had likely known Fee was above.

“Have you started sleeping in haylofts, Fee?”

“The sun comes up early, and I wanted to play with my kitten. Are you out for a ride?”

He smiled at her. Mr. Daniels had nice eyes—he smiled with his eyes more than he smiled with his mouth. “I’m leaving for the South, Fee. Business, you know.”

This was not good. Mama had disappeared into the saddle room the other day with Mr. Daniels, and she’d been smiling radiantly at the time—also holding Mr. Daniels’s hand. “Send a wire for your business. That’s what Her Majesty does.”

Mr. Daniels slipped off the horse’s headstall and looped the reins of a bridle over the gelding’s neck. “Her Majesty explains her business practices to you, does she?”

“She comes to our tea parties in the nursery at Balmoral sometimes, and so does His Royal Highness. They speak German to help us learn. If you’re leaving, you ought to pay a call on her.”

And he ought not to leave. Fiona would bet her favorite doll on that—if she could find it.

“Her Majesty is the last person I want to spend time with, Fiona.”

Mr. Daniels had been in the cavalry. He put a bridle on his horse in a precise order, and he checked each strap and buckle in order too.

“I like the Queen. Why are you leaving?”

“I told you.” He blew out a breath and stared over the horse’s neck. “The press of business calls me away, and even if I were having second thoughts, and leaving was the last thing I wanted to do, your uncles need me to see to some things for them rather urgently. It’s best if I go.”

Things to see to must be half of what adulthood was about. Fiona didn’t think such a life was going to be much fun. Uncle Ian’s face wore the same expression when he talked about Marrying Won’t Be So Bad. “You should not lie. Ma will skelp your bum.”

“Would that it were so simple.” He stared at his empty saddle, his eyes bleak. Uncle Gil looked like that when he stared at Miss Genie.

“I am forbidden to tell the truth by my own honor and by vows explicitly made to one whose requests I could not refuse.” He muttered the last as he checked the horse’s girth, which meant soon he’d lead the horse out to the mounting block.

“That is silly. Nobody is forbidden to tell the truth. It says to tell the truth in the Bible.”

“It also says ‘let the women keep silent in the church,’ but I doubt you do. Put my stirrup down on that side, if you please.”

Fiona put Spats on her shoulder and pulled the stirrup down, then ran the buckle up under the saddle flap. “If you are forbidden to tell the truth, and you want to tell the truth, then you must simply get permission first. Uncle Ian says you have to neg-o-ti-ate.”

On the other side of the horse, Mr. Daniels peered over at her. “Get permission?”

“To tell the truth. You ask nicely, and give at least three reasons, and it doesn’t hurt if everybody’s in a good mood when you ask.”

“I should get permission…” He came around the horse and scooped Fiona up against his hip, like Uncle Ian used to before she got so big. Spats hopped down, and the horse twitched an ear.

“You are a brilliant child. You’re going to grow up to be as lovely as your mother, and I’m going to be there to see it—I hope.” He didn’t look nearly so bleak now. He looked fierce.

“I hope so too. May I have a pony if you are?”

“Not unless your mother says it’s acceptable to her. I have to leave now, Fiona, but I will be back in time for the ball.”

He hugged her, good and tight, and while he led his horse out to the mounting block, Fiona ensconced Spats on her shoulder again. She waved Mr. Daniels on his way in the predawn light, and watched as he cantered off. At the bottom of the drive, he turned the horse not toward the train station in Ballater, but to the west, toward Balmoral.

Which was odd.

***

Mary Fran hated the summer ball. Not the planning and organizing of it, not seeing her brothers in all their Highland finery, not seeing how excited Fee got as the day drew closer.

She hated the ball itself—had taken all balls, dances, and assemblies into dislike the night Fee was conceived, and saw no reason to change her opinion at this late date.

“You are glowering, my lady. Have I done something to offend?” Augusta Merrick posed the question in the soft, polite voice Mary Fran would never be able to imitate.

“All this nonsense offends,” Mary Fran said, glancing around the ballroom. “We won’t have a flower left in the garden, and the ice alone will beggar us.”

“He’ll come back, Mary Fran.” The same soft voice, but with a hint of something under it. “Matthew is honorable. If he told Ian and Fee he’d be back, he will be.”

“I’m that obvious?”

“You’re that in love.”

Mary Fran peered over at the Englishwoman who was arranging flowers for a small centerpiece. Augusta had suggested keeping most of the centerpieces low, and therefore simple and inexpensive. She’d also suggested including heather here and there to keep the air fresh and the tenor of the gathering Scottish.

“You wouldn’t begrudge me your cousin’s affections?” Mary Fran could not have asked that question of Matthew’s sisters. For some reason, they took less notice of him than Miss Augusta did.

“Let’s take a break,” Augusta said. “And no, we will not ring for tea.”

She linked her arm through Mary Fran’s and led the way out to the terraces, where footmen were setting up torches and tables while maids scurried in all directions. Mary Fran drew out her pocket flask when she and Augusta