Page 57 of Hit Me With Your Best Scot
“Yes, my lady?”
“I’ll be in my rooms. The moment Lord Glendarril returns, have my coach readied and inform me. Discreetly.”
He nodded. “I’ll see to it, my lady. More trouble?”
“I imagine so.” She picked up her cup of tea, but before she could lift it to her mouth, a rustle of voices sounded from the direction of the kitchen. “Go,” she said, and Smythe left the room. Another footman took his place.
Several hurried sets of footsteps thudded up and down the hallway for a moment. She wanted to rise and demand that she be informed of what was causing the chaos beneath her roof. But as forceful as she knew she could be, and as wild and willful as her sons were, demands would only be met with sarcasm and evasion. So she remained seated, trying not to grip her tea cup tightly enough to break the delicate handle.
The door opened again. Jane Bansil, Amy’s cousin and former companion, gave a polite nod before heading for the sideboard and the generous selections waiting there for anyone in the growing household wanting breakfast.
“Good morning, my lady,” she said, picking out a slice of toast and a fresh orange and seating herself at the foot of the table.
“Jane, you’re a guest here. You may sit wherever you wish.”
The rail-straight young lady cringed. “Yes, I know, and I thank you again for your generosity. The—”
“Nonsense. Come up here and sit beside me. I require a distraction.”
Her black hair in its ever-present and excruciatingly tight bun, Jane jumped to her feet again, picked up her plate, and hurried up the table. When she sat again, the plate clanked onto the smooth, polished mahogany, and she flinched again.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. If this house is one thing, it’s not quiet.”
“It is very… lively,” Miss Bansil offered.
“What do you see ahead for yourself, my dear?” Francesca pursued. “I haven’t had time to ask.”
“Oh, I’m—I—certainly I won’t impose on you much longer. I’ve put out several inquiries, and I believe I may find a position by the end of the month.”
“Is that what you want?” The woman had been let go from her previous employment—her own aunt—for allowing Amy to elope to Scotland with Niall. “I don’t recall you or Amy enjoying the Baxter household overly much.”
“I’m a woman without means, my lady. I must find employment, or I shall starve. Somewhere that provides me a roof over my head and meals would be… a relief, I suppose.”
“Even if you could stay here as long as you wish?”
“I’m not cursed with ambition, I know, and I’m… well, I bumble a great deal looking for the correct words, but I would like to have some task before me. A reason for getting up in the morning, as it were.”
Francesca sipped her tea. “Ah. You don’t wish to be a woman of leisure like myself, then.”
Jane’s cheeks turned bright red. “Oh, dear. No! Not…That’s not what I meant. You are a mother and you have charities, and you are rarely at leisure, from what I can see.”
“Well, thank you for that. If you wish to find a position, then do so. It does occur to me that my daughter will be married shortly, and I have no doubt my sons will be returning to Scotland as soon as they can manage it. What would you think of remaining here with me? Officially? As my companion, or my secretary, or whatever we decide to term the position?”
“Oh, my goodness. I hadn’t—oh, my.”
The door opened again. Smythe glided into the breakfast room with a note between his fingers. “Consider it, Jane. I imagine I’ll want your answer after Eloise’s wedding.” She motioned, and the butler walked to the table and handed over the paper.
Francesca opened it. Coll’s surprisingly elegant scrawl took only two lines, giving an address and a request to Niall or Aden to send four trustworthy lads there immediately. By trustworthy, she assumed he meant Scottish.
“Niall and Aden have seen it?” she asked.
“Yes, my lady. Master Niall and four of their fellows rode off just a moment ago.”
She folded the missive and put it in her pocket. “Who delivered it?”
“That groom.”
