I can get to Laird MacSween’s castle on foot by daybreak if I leave early enough. I can explain me plan to him in person. If Father doesnae ken, he cannae stop me.
“A lassie cannae go writin' to a strange man and proposin' marriage,” Patrick restated the same objection he had made all evening. “To a laird, too? It would be a disgrace upon me. Be fair to us and accept yer fate without such behavior.”
“We are where we are because of ye,” Beatrice reminded him. “Now I’m expected to give up me life to fix yer mess. Does that sound fair to ye?!”
She sighed after this outburst, realizing that she had only sparked another fresh row that she had no time or patience for.
“Daenae speak to me like that! I am yer father and deserve yer respect. I didnae ken those investments were bad and I wasnae the only man deceived out of money. At cards I was only unlucky, and I wouldn’t have had to take the mortgages if I’d been treated fairly by me neighbors…”
This time Beatrice did not answer. She had heard it all before. Staring at her father, she was flooded with sadness rather than fear or anger at her situation.
“I didnae mean to blame ye, Father. I’m sorry,” she said with a contrition that was temporarily genuine. “We should both go to bed. It must be one in the mornin'.”
“Aye,” he agreed unexpectedly, rubbing his own tired eyes. “We should sleep on this and speak again in the mornin'. There are three weeks yet and all might look different to ye tomorrow."
Bidding her father goodnight, Beatice watched his retreating back. They were both helpless, both flailing and angry at what had been decreed. Beatrice could only weep and wail and gnash her teeth. Her mother could only lecture and snap. Her father could only rant or brood in morose silence.
If they couldn’t bear the thought of Beatrice writing to Laird MacSween, her parents certainly wouldn’t be able to cope with what she really planned to do once the household were well-settled in their beds…
With Patrick Whitmore’s departure, Margo looked up from the wardrobe where she had been hanging up Beatrice’s clothes.
“I’ll set out yer night things now, Miss,” the maid told her. “As yer father said, this will all look better in the mornin', I’ve nay doubt.”
“It willnae look better, Margo,” Beatrice said, with a humorless little laugh at the thought of the adventure ahead and what the next day would bring her parents whether she succeeded or failed. “But it will look different.”
“As ye say, Miss,” Margo agreed affably, always more inclined to acquiesce than to argue.
Once Beatrice was washed and in her nightgown, Margo still lingered. On another night, Beatrice might have been happy to talk but tonight she had been hoping for her maid to leave her promptly.
“What is it, Margo?” she asked eventually, after the young woman had stood there looking tongue-tied for several minutes and clearly seeking Beatrice’s permission to speak about something.
“Well, miss, I heard ye mention Laird MacSween,” Margo began hesitantly.
“Aye. What of it?”
“Have ye seen him up close? Do ye ken what he looks like?”
“That’s nae really me concern right now, Margo. I’ve seen him ridin' about and can say he has two arms, two legs and a head. What more do I need in a man to marry him?”
At this, Margo’s smile changed, becoming secretive and knowing. It was as though the maid knew of something admirable about the laird her parents evidently regarded as coarse and brutish. What could that be?
“Ye’ll see. Goodnight, Miss.”
Bobbing a curtsy after this mysterious statement, the maid went out and closed the door of Beatrice’s chamber behind her.
Redressing, gathering the few items she needed for the journey and pinning her long auburn hair up inside a hat, Beatrice waited until the entire house had been silent for several full hours.
Only then did she pull on a long grey cloak and creep on tiptoe out of the house entrance furthest from her parents’ chambers, and far away too from where the nightwatchman kept his post.
Outside, the colorless world of the pre-dawn still awaited the kiss of the Scottish sunrise. Only a band of faint silver yet told of the new day’s arrival. Beatrice knew that she had no time to stare at the sunrise any more than she had time to wonder about Laird MacSween.
Soon, the servants would be up, preparing breakfast and starting their chores for the day. Beatrice must be long gone by then.
Despite knowing the roads, the journey looked very different at this hour, and when traveling alone. Beatrice was sometimes sure that she must be almost there and then convinced only a few minutes later that she might not be on the right road.
Her ears pricked up at the clip-clop of a horse’s hooves coming down the path of stone and dirt to the west. A bolt of panic shot through Beatrice and she threw herself into some bushes. Had she been missed from home already? The sun had only just risen and she doubted that anyone would go to her chamber before nine.
In the bushes, Beatrice calmed herself. The rider was moving in a slow leisurely fashion, more like someone out for early exercise than hunting a runaway. Her fears were allayed further on seeing that the rider was another woman.
