Page 14 of Wouldn’t it Be Scottish?

Donal was a kind person, and he had warned Mary about Belvoir, only for her to take his warning the wrong way and accuse him of being jealous. That made Agatha dislike Mary even more. She and the other woman were very different people, and although she tried to be charitable, she found it difficult.

“Miss Davidson is ill mannered,” Mrs. Robinson said with a shake of her head as they drove away from the Countess of Strathmore’s house after leaving Donal there. “One should never walk away from the person one is dancing with unless under extreme circumstances. I could understand if Miss Davidson walked away from Belvoir, for instance.”

“And I am positive Lord Donal would never have said anything reprehensible,” Agatha’s father added. “He is a good boy. Well-mannered and thoughtful.”

“He is sweet,” Mrs. Robinson said with a smile in her voice.

Agatha blushed for no reason. Unless it was because she was remembering their kiss in the garden. That had been more than sweet; that had been heated and passionate. The sort of kiss she had never expected to take part in, and the sort of kiss she wanted more of. Would Donal kiss her again? From the expression in his eyes afterward when they were dancing, she thought he would.

“What did Richard say?” Her father interrupted her musings. “We saw you dancing with him.”

They waited for Agatha to gather her thoughts.

“It was odd. Richard was the same as always, as if nothing had changed. He asked after my health and yours, Father, but I felt as if he were waiting to pounce. That he had another agenda, and he was leading up to it.”

“And did he?” Miriam asked curiously.

“Yes.” Agatha grimaced at the memory, answering in a rush. “He informed me that I was making a fool of myself, that he had seen me making eyes at Donal, and a man like that would not look twice at me.”

Her father was aghast, and Miriam reached to clutch her hand, squeezing it tightly. “The heartless creature!” she said. “Did he intend to hurt you on purpose?”

Agatha found their outrage on her behalf soothing to her wounded pride. “He spoke in a way that was meant to be kind, as if he didn’t want me to be disappointed and was preparing me for it. But actually it was cruel. Richard has never been cruel to me before.”

Her father’s voice was full of anger. “Perhaps it is just as well you are not going to marry him! I had always thought him a nice-mannered young man, but now I can see I was sadly mistaken in him, my dear.”

“Or else he was jealous and trying hard to hide it,” Miriam suggested thoughtfully. “Richard being jealous was what you wanted, wasn’t it, Agatha?”

“I suppose so, but why say such things to me when it was he who abandoned me? If anyone should be jealous and upset, then it is me.”

“Do you want to stop now?” Miriam said kindly. “Whatever you and Donal are doing is working. Richard could be seeing how much he has lost in you and how little he has gained with Miss Elliot. He might be having regrets and trying to soothe his conscience by hurting you. It is not a nice way to behave, but it might explain it.”

Was that it? Had Richard had a change of heart and was lashing out because he was feeling hurt and jealous and guilty? The trouble was, she was beginning to think that having Richard back might not be what she truly wanted. Would having Richard back make her happy? She had seen a different side of him over the past weeks, and he had wounded her badly. She tried to imagine him on his knees, apologizing and declaring his undying love for her, and although it was a very pleasing picture, she just wasn’t sure what her answer would be. How could she ever trust him again? Completely?

And as for Donal and Mary . . . Agatha believed him when he said he loved the girl and that his heart was broken, but she could not but help think Mary was not good enough for him. What if Mary married Donal and then ran off with the very next handsome man who flattered her? She seemed like the type. Agatha knew she was being spiteful, but she couldn’t seem to help it. How could Donal ever forgive Mary for leaving him for the social whirl of London, even if she apologized and said she loved him?

Donal deserved better.

He deserves someone like you, a little voice whispered in her head.

She ignored it, because such things were unhelpful.

Perhaps their outing the day after tomorrow would bring her answers to all of her questions. She knew that both Richard and Mary would be at the picnic—she had made sure of it when she accepted the invitation—and so would Miss Elliot and Mr. Belvoir. And wouldn’t that make for a jolly outing, she thought grimly. At least she would have Donal by her side. Her spirits lifted as she imagined them together by the river, enjoying themselves despite their heartbreak.

Agatha did not sleep well that night. Richard’s words whirled around in her head, eroding her self-esteem, and then she remembered Donal’s face after Mary had left him on the dance floor. But more than either of those things, there was her memory of the kiss. Donal’s lips warm on hers, the heat of his mouth and the intimacy of being held so close in his arms so that their bodies were pressed together.

That moment had been special. She had never felt that way before, and she wondered if she ever would again.

*

Watching his daughter’s suffering was painful. Archie Kilsyth knew that one’s heart did not grow any more resilient as one grew older. In fact, it was his belief that it became more fragile. Thank goodness he had met Miriam, who always listened when he spoke of Agatha and sympathized with his family’s struggles. Not that he had told her everything about his present circumstances—far from it. He knew that if they were to become closer, if he were to ask her to be his wife, then he would have to divulge his secret.

And he didn’t believe he was the only one with a skeleton in the cupboard.

There were times when he caught an expression on Miriam’s face or in her eyes that made him wonder what it was she was not sharing. He wanted her to share. He wanted to take on the burdens she carried. But he couldn’t force her, and he just hoped that in time she would begin to trust him.

Had she been hurt? She did not speak of her husband except to say he was dead. She had no children and no relatives she seemed to be close to. She was alone. And then there was the night he had met her at the Vauxhall Gardens. He had seen something in her eyes then, a wariness, almost as if she were afraid of him. He had wanted nothing more than to help her, to put her at her ease, and as they began to talk and she accepted his invitation to take supper, he had seen the possibility of a close relationship between them.

But that wariness in her eyes was still there on occasion, that lack of trust.