Scandal's Daughters

Chapter 22

Hamish extricated himself as politely, but forthrightly as possible from the Lorimers’ claims. “You were right to come here, Mr. Lorimer, for things are most definitely not right and tight. In fact, they are entirely havey-cavey, if my family has entered into any agreements or marriage contract with you.”

“They have!” the bullish brewer confirmed.

“They have not the right, for I am of age, and I am not free to become engaged.” Hamish straightened his coat, and stood himself up tall. “For you see, I am already married.”

This proclamation was met, for the moment, with stunned silence.

The brewer and his heiress looked at each other with something more powerful and more personal than either anger or regret. “To the dairy maid?” Miss Lorimer, who was clearly not stupid, asked.

“To my wife.” Hamish let some heat raise his voice. “Whom I will not allow you to disparage.”

“No, forgive me.” Miss Lorimer amended her incredulity. “I saw nothing in the newspapers, or we should never have come. Never contemplated—”

“Of course.” Hamish eased his own tone. “It has not yet been put in.” Mostly because it had not yet happened, but that was a minor detail he would arrange forthwith. “Nevertheless, I want to make it clear that we”—he indicated Miss Lorimer and himself—“are not engaged, nor will we never be married. And I would appreciate it greatly if my name and that of my wife were not put about.”

“Of course not.” She pursed her lips and looked away. “Though I hope I have given you no reason to think I would do such a thing.”

It was Hamish’s turn to be chagrinned, and he realized that Miss Lorimer had her own, different disappointments than either Elspeth or himself. He could—and would at his first opportunity—find Elspeth and make all right between them. Miss Lorimer, with her trade-earned fortune and her brewer of a father, would have a harder time finding herself a new prospect for a husband.

“I hope you take no offense to yourself, Miss Lorimer. I regret deeply that this misunderstanding has happened, and would have been honored to act upon my family’s wishes were I not already contracted, and in love with another.”

Hamish had meant the admission to be for Miss Lorimer, to salve her pride and wounded feelings, but the moment he said it, he knew that he meant every word.

His wife. His love.

Ye gods. Truer words he had never spoken.

And speak them again he needed to—posthaste. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Lorimer, Mr. Lorimer, I have most urgent business I must attend to.”

***

With Fergus’ adroit assistance Hamish was dressed in a suitably gentlemanly suit of clothes, seated upon a hunter of more aristocratic bloodlines than his own, and ready to present himself to the ladies of Dove Cottage whereupon he would soothe the upset of the morning, and plight his troth.

But the ladies of Dove Cottage were more militant than he expected. They would not answer the bell at their door, even though he could hear them, talking between themselves inside.

So Hamish took himself to the window. “Dear ladies, I have come to make my peace and make my honorable intentions known to you. But I cannot do so through a closed door. But, do you know what?” He changed his mind. “I can do it through a window. I love Elspeth enough that I don’t mind how I ask for the honor of her hand.”

The silence that met this proposal would have been deafening but for the fact that he was in a country lane, where it was never really quiet—the hedgerows fairly rattled with all manner of answers.

“But we don’t know you,” was finally the plaintive response.

“Then let me introduce myself properly, ladies. I am Mr. Hamish Cathcart of Edinburgh, son of the Earl Cathcart of Renfrewshire, and other various and assorted places that I am sure he would be glad and proud to tell you about, but which bore me to tears. Because the point of this visit is to assure you that though my fortune is currently small, it is independent, and I have every confidence that I will increase it if you will do me the honor of letting Miss Elspeth Otis become by helpmeet and wife, and be by my side.”

It was a rather long, rambling sort of proposal, but Hamish was pleased and proud of it, for he meant never to make another. Though he did not yet appear to be finished with this one.

One of the sisters Murray peered around the open door. “We suppose you had better come in.”

Hamish was careful to wipe his boots, and take off his hat so as not to dirty the floor, nor crowd the ceiling of the snug little cottage. He bowed to the two tiny sisters. “Thank you for seeing me. I am honored.”

The smaller of the two ladies pursed her lips in disagreement. “We didn’t want the neighbors to see you standing in the garden like a scarecrow.”

A well-dressed, aristocratic scarecrow, he nearly corrected. But he did not. “I see. Then let me do all I can to convince you of my sincerity. I love and admire and esteem your niece, and I should be the happiest of men were you to honor me with her hand, but I will tell you, too, that I mean to have her to wife, whether you give your blessing or not. We are both of age. And this is Scotland. And”—he threw one last piece of fuel on the fire—“we are handfasted, and so engaged.”

They were not yet impressed. “Have you the backing of your family?”

This question, he had not expected, but he was equal to the moment. “I belong to an ancient and honorable family, Miss Murray, but my own name and my own character are all I can offer your niece. I hope that they are enough to secure your approval.”

“She’s a bastard.” The smaller of the two ladies thrust the accusation at him like a sword.

But he had weapons of his own—righteous anger and steadfast love. “Elspeth may be illegitimate, but bastardy is not a part of her character.” He worked to keep the steel from his voice. “And I will not have that word spoken in reference to her again. Do I make myself clear?”

In silence the sisters Murray looked at each other in silent communication before they turned to him.

“We could not give her to you if you felt otherwise, Mr. Cathcart.”

Relief slid slowly into his veins like a cool bath, calming him, and firming his resolve. “Then all that remains is for me to plight my troth to Elspeth. Where is she?”

Another long speaking look passed between the women before the older of the two spoke. “We’re afraid she’s gone, Mr. Cathcart. We are ashamed to say we drove her out, and can only hope that she is gone to her Aunt Ivers in Edinburgh.”

Well. Hamish withstood the blow with all the sanguinity he could muster. “Then I think, my dear aunts, that we had best get you two packed for Edinburgh.”