The Scottish Bride - Catherine Coulter [110]
“Yes, very delightful for me, Mrs. Bittley. Thank you for remarking on it. Mrs. Markham, would you like another cup of tea?”
“No, Mrs. Sherbrooke—how difficult it is to say that name when you—a perfect stranger—and not even a perfect English stranger—are very suddenly and so very unexpectedly wearing it.”
Mary Rose just smiled at the very thin woman who was so fair her hair looked nearly white in the dim afternoon light. Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow there would be light in this room. She would have it painted a pale yellow, perhaps. She stopped herself. She had to remember that this was just barely her home. She turned her attention to Mrs. Markham and said easily, “I suspect you were a bit surprised for a while to hear yourself called Mrs. Markham when you first married your husband, were you not?”
“That is neither here nor there,” said Mrs. Bittley. “You have admitted that you are Scottish, have admitted that you are a foreigner.”
“It is not something one can readily hide, don’t you think?”
Mrs. Padworthy, an ancient old woman, tiny and stooped, waved a veined hand. “Now, Mrs. Bittley, haven’t I told you that I have always liked the Scottish people? They bring such exotic music to the world with that wheezing bagpipe, a strange-looking thing that sounds like a gutted cow, don’t you think? And all those quaint combinations of colors in their endlessly clever plaids, so popular amongst them—at least they did until they went against God’s rightful king and we had to plant our boots on their necks. Wasn’t the last time in 1745?”
“Ah, ladies, I trust you are enjoying your visit with my wife. Mrs. Bittley, won’t you be seated? Mrs. Padworthy, how is your dear husband? Well, I trust?”
The thin mouth thinned even more. “He is nearly dead, Vicar. I expect him to be breathing his last by the time I arrive home. You did not ask about him before.”
“We will pray that he lasts a while longer,” Tysen said. “Ah, yes, Mrs. Bittley, I see a chair just over there. Meggie was just telling me that I should disclose to you, since you are all my very good friends and have only my best interests at heart, exactly how I went to Scotland and came home with a bride.”
“You went to Scotland, Vicar,” said Mrs. Padworthy, “because you inherited a Scottish title and a castle that likely is so old it is in ruins and smells of damp. You are now Lord Barthwick. That is why you went. You didn’t go there for any other reason at all.”
He smiled at all of them, each one in turn. “True. However, I found, quite simply, that when I met Mary Rose I knew—yes, ladies, I knew all the way to my very soul—that she was special. It took me a very long time to convince her to marry me and live here with me in England. Her arguments were sound: she didn’t know anything about the English, for to her, you see, we are all foreigners, with different beliefs and manners, perhaps we even commit different sins, although she and I did not discuss any specifics.
“I assured her that everyone here would be delighted to meet her, to welcome her, to befriend her, for the English were a sunny-tempered race, very important since it rains here so very much, a gracious people, a kindly people. Ah, here I am going on and on and it isn’t Sunday, and thus this is not a sermon, just a devout plea from my heart for your understanding. Forgive me for disturbing you, ladies. I will remove myself and let you continue getting to know each other.”
He gave each of them an austere smile, the sort of Sunday smile, Mary Rose thought, that was aimed at people who were seriously considering committing major sins.
“This is very unlike you, Vicar,” Mrs. Padworthy said. “I shall tell my husband about your very lax conduct if he is still breathing when I return home. We will see what he has to say about all this.”
“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.