Hamish could all but feel his father’s hand stirring this pot.

“Elspeth, why don’t you go on to the Lodge. I’ll follow you directly.” But Elspeth had no time to respond before the brewer’s daughter had made her way down the lane upon them.

“Don’t go, Hamish. It won’t do you know, running away, looking like a scarecrow, with straw in your hair. Not when we’ve driven all this way to find you.” She smiled in a way that bared her teeth, much like an aggressive dog, grinning before it bites. “Rusticating with dairy maids, have you been, Hamish? Your mother will be all agog to hear.”

So perhaps not his father’s hand. But still, his family was stirring the hot pot he seemed to have landed in. “Miss Lorimer. You will excuse me, please.” He would not introduce Elspeth, for such was the surest way to have her name spread about Edinburgh like a contagion.

“I will not, unless I have your promise that I shall meet with you dancing attendance upon me at the Marchioness of Queensbury’s Masquerade ball in Edinburgh on Thursday next. I expect that will be the perfect evening to announce our betrothal, will it not?”

It would not. But her words had already hit Elspeth like a hard slap to the face—he could see her head snap back with the force of the lie. “Betrothal?”

“No. It’s not like that,” Hamish began.

“But it is.” Miss Brewery’s laughing expression stilled, and became serious. “Your family, not to mention the solicitors, say differently, dear Hamish. And so does my Papa.” She gestured to the man standing near.

The brewer himself stepped forward. “Aye. Beggin' your pardon, sir, but I do.” The man was polite but emphatic. “Signed the papers this morning, Mr. Cathcart. I was given to believe you’d be there to make things all right and tight, and when you weren’t, why I set out for to find you straightaway. And here we are.”

Here they all were. Except for Elspeth, who had already turned tail, and, very sensibly, run away from this fine madness.

Would that he could do the same.

***

Elspeth did what she had always been taught to do—make herself so small and quiet that she erased herself from the conversation. But this time, she could not simply retreat to the privacy of her imagination. This time, she had to run to escape the sharp eyes of Hamish’s betrothed, Miss Lorimer, looking her over as if she were a slattern.

Where she ran was a matter of indifference. Through the trees, along the river and deep into the shadow of the woods was all she could think, letting the branches claw at her skirts and switch at her skin, running onward until her lungs were burning with shame and fury and she collapsed onto her knees, and lay sobbing in the moss-covered bracken.

She sobbed out the ache in her chest until it gradually grew smaller and smaller, hardening into something small enough to manage. Small enough to swallow.

Hamish’s betrothed.

She looked the part, Miss Lorimer—well dressed and well spoken, as if she would belong in Edinburgh, or Cathcart Lodge or the Marchioness of Queensbury’s Masquerade ball. As if she were sure of the world and her place in it. As if she were entirely legitimate.

Exactly as Elspeth was not. Just as she had always known.

But there was nothing Elspeth could do about it. The world was the way it was, and sobbing into the underbrush wasn’t going to do anything but make her face blotchy. So she stood and smoothed her skirts, and did the only thing she could do—headed home to Dove Cottage. Where she belonged.

“Is that you, Elspeth?”

At the sound of her aunt’s voice, Elspeth was enveloped in all the homey comfort of the familiar, and she wanted nothing more at that moment than to cast herself into their arms. Not that they were great comforters—physical displays of affection being few and far between at Dove Cottage. Still, a kind word could be as balming as a posset.

Elspeth took a deep breath and let the calm comfort of knowing she was where she belonged wash over her and soften the sharp edges of her anger and hurt. “Yes, Aunt Molly. I’m home.”

The Aunts met her at the garden door, standing in front of the portal with their arms linked together for support.

“What is wrong?” Elspeth rushed forward to assist them.

But Aunt Molly drew back, getting to her point with characteristic directness. “We’ve had the most alarming report, Elspeth, that you were seen consorting with a young man near the orchard this morning, and then later in the lane.”

Michty me. Dread tightened her belly like a leather belt drawn too taut. She ought to have known, of course. She ought to have understood that there was no privacy in a village this small—someone was always watching. Someone always reported what they thought they saw.

And things never got better but that they got worse first.

“It was only Mr. Cathcart, Aunt. He and I were talking. And walking. And saying goodbye. He’s gone for Edinburgh and his life there.”

“You did more than talk if the moss on your collar, and the grass stains on your skirts, and the look of regret in your eye are any indication.”

“No, I—” Elspeth half-turned to try and find the moss, and, instead, found a grass stain on her shoulder. Not that she had never innocuously smudged or stained a gown or petticoat working in the garden before, but today, riddy heat seared her cheeks. “I went into the wood by myself, after he left. To…” To have a good cry would be too revealing. “To be alone.”

But Aunt Isla wasn’t listening—she had been watching Elspeth’s hot face. “Well, at least you’ve the good sense to be mortified by your actions, but I’ll tell you this Elspeth Otis, we raised you better than to consort in orchards with the likes of him—a tramp.”

“He’s not a tramp. I told you, he’s—”

“I don’t want to hear another word, Elspeth Otis.” Aunt Molly held up her hand and closed her eyes, barring any attempt at explanation. “We don’t care who he is.”

Elspeth did care, but she couldn’t seem to do anything about it. “I’m sorry—”

“We’re more than sorry, too,” Aunt Molly said. “Blood will out, Isla’s always said. We tried to raise you right and keep you from iniquity. We did our best—no one can say we didn’t—but we won’t be made to put up with it, do you hear?” Aunt Molly did not wait for Elspeth’s answer, but continued straight on. “We raised you better, Elspeth, and we won’t be subject to such…”

“Such licentiousness.” Isla supplied the necessary word on a whisper.

“Aunts, please.” Elspeth tried to speak over her rising panic. “I haven’t subjected anyone to any licentious—”

“Don’t lie to us, Elspeth. Close up thine mouth before the devil can take any more of your words.”

Dread and panic brewed a hissing pot of shame that sealed her mouth. Elspeth recognized the trunk on the other side of the door—its meaning becoming apparent with a sort of searing pain that ripped a hole in her tattered heart.

 “As much as it pains us to say”—Molly squared her thin shoulders—“we’re done with you, Elspeth. We can’t have you here in this house if you’re going to behave with such total disregard for the morals and strictures to which you’ve been raised.”

“Can’t have me?” Were they casting her out? Now, when they had done all they could by means fair and foul to bring her back not a week ago?

The shame and dread were diluted with consternation. And a growing indignation.

“We won’t have it, I tell you,” Molly was saying. “We won’t.”

“We can’t have this upset.”

The pain leeched out slowly, leaving Elspeth rather numb. “You’re putting me out?”

“We are. We must.”

“For your own good.”

“So you’ll realize the value of what you’ve lost and come to your senses.”

“My senses?” Elspeth could hardly believe what she was hearing.

“Aye.” Aunt Molly stood quietly firm. “Much as it pains us. You’ll have to go.”

“Aye, I will. If you’ll be so kind as to let me fetch my cloak and hat.” Elspeth didn’t wait for their approval, but mounted up the stairs to her room. The sloped ceiling that had only that morning seemed so close and comfortable and warm was now too close and confining. Too small minded.

She snatched up a work bag and threw in only enough to put her on the road to Edinburgh, even if she had to ride in a dray like the castoff she was meant to be.

But she was an independent woman now, untethered from the past, who only had the future. A future she meant to shape for herself.

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.”