The Scottish Companion Read Online Free Page B

no doubt belonging to the Earls of Straithern. Topping the entrance was a square tower, the clock in the center of it bearing Roman numerals against an ivory face.
    When Arabella made no move to leave the carriage, Gillian stepped out. The shrubberies surrounding the house were trimmed; the trees were arching tidily over the road. Even the gravel path was orderly, as if it had been swept clean of extraneous leaves. One lone tree sat in a circular island, its branches left to grow naturally, its leaves still curling in the cool spring air. As if it were a sentinel, a warning to all what might happen if nature were left to itself. It was, perhaps, the most welcoming part of Rosemoor.
    The air of Rosemoor smelled different, somehow, as if the Earl of Straithern had commanded only the best scents to be present for their arrival: grass, newly born flowers, the sweetest breeze from the south.
    Gillian turned and faced the edifice, thinking that she’d been wrong. This was no house, but a castle. All the towers and crenellated patterns along the roof spoke of defense, barely needed now in this peaceful age.
    Arabella finally left the carriage. Dr. Fenton extended his arm to her, and she placed her hand on his sleeve. The two of them preceded Gillian up the curving steps while two footmen followed. What must it be like to have servants around every hour of every day? Gillian wanted to stop and tell them that she was no more important than they. She, too, was a servant, for all the title of companion. Her role would not change despite Arabella’s elevation in rank.
    “You will like this, Gillian.” Dr. Fenton stopped and glanced back at her. “There are bits of needlework at Rosemoor that were worked by Mary, Queen of Scots.”
    “Truly?”
    He nodded. “I am not certain which ones they are, but I shall find out for you. Also, one of the bedrooms is said to have been occupied by Bonnie Prince Charlie during his retreat from the English.” He looked up at the broad double doors. “A home steeped in history, Arabella. And you will be the chatelaine of it.”
    Arabella said nothing, and although Gillian couldn’t see her face, she would wager that it was expressionless. Arabella had a way of hiding her feelings so deep that no one really knew what she was thinking. How very odd that Gillian had adopted the trait over the last year. It was easier to pretend, wasn’t it?
    The doors suddenly opened, and they were greeted by a portly man with white hair, attired in a gray suit that fit his corpulent form perfectly. For a horrified moment, Gillian thought he might be the earl. If so, this marriage was even more understandable. He was old, and Arabella was young and beautiful.
    But he bowed to Dr. Fenton and stepped aside. Ofcourse, he was the majordomo. How foolish of her. An earl would not greet them at the door.
    “Good day, Blevins,” Dr. Fenton said. “His Lordship is expecting us.”
    “Indeed, sir. The earl will welcome you in the Flower Room.”
    Dr. Fenton smiled brightly. “My favorite room.”
    The majordomo led the way, with Dr. Fenton keeping up a running commentary about all the treasures to be found at Rosemoor.
    He stopped beside one table, oblivious to the fact that Blevins eyed him with some disfavor.
    “This writing table was made by Gole, the cabinetmaker to Louis XIV of France. It was a gift from the king to the Earl of Straithern who was an ambassador to Paris at the time.”
    The majordomo pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at it with great ceremony, a none too gentle reminder that one did not keep an earl waiting.
    Gillian glanced at the table as she passed. The inlaid pewter, brass, and mother-of-pearl made for a gaudy display. Everything old was not necessarily beautiful.
    Of her two companions, Dr. Fenton was more enamored of Rosemoor than his daughter. Arabella had been silent during most of the journey. Now her demeanor was stiff, her shoulders straight, her posture leaving no doubt that she