Page 27 of Wouldn’t it Be Scottish?

Jennie considered her words and then sighed. “To be frank, I always found Mary a very silly girl. Pretty, in fact one could call her beautiful, but for her head to be so easily turned . . . Even if she returned with Donal, he would need to watch her like a hawk in case she ran off again. I can’t help but think that would be a horrible burden for a husband.”

Agatha agreed. “And yet he loves her,” she said a little dolefully, “and if I can help him to win her back, then I should.”

“And what if she doesn’t want Donal?” Jennie said. “Will you carry on with your engagement to my nephew? That seems to be your father’s wish. Will you marry Donal?”

Agatha blinked. She had not allowed herself to think about what would happen if their engagement turned into marriage. There was a reason for that. She suspected she wanted the engagement between her and Donal to be real. She wanted it with all of her heart. But how could she say that aloud to Donal’s aunt when she was convinced Donal was going to return in triumph to Bonnyrigg with his Mary?

But perhaps the countess suspected Agatha was hiding her true feelings. “Well,” she said reaching out to pat Agatha’s hand, “I suppose we must cross that bridge when we come to it. And it may turn out as you say.”

Agatha did not answer because of the lump in her throat.

The countess became brisk. “Your father tells me that he will be seeing to the necessary paperwork to seal your forthcoming marriage to Donal. He wants everything locked up tight.” Jennie gave her a meaningful look. “If you and Donal really don’t want to be married, then you need to tell your father the truth before it is too late.”

Agatha had not realized that was happening. She knew her father had been very happy about her engagement, and she hadn’t wanted to spoil it for him. She had thought that, with time, she could reveal the truth to him, if she had thought about it at all.

“You should talk to your father,” the countess said again. “I think there is more to his joy over your engagement than he has admitted. You need to ask him some hard questions, Agatha.”

Agatha did not know what to say to that, but she was remembering a couple of instances when her father had seemed to act oddly. Now her visitor was rising to her feet and moving to the door, and Agatha hurried after her. “What do you mean? He worries about me, that is all. He was sorry when Richard left us, and now—”

But she stopped when the countess took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “Talk to him, my dear,” she said quietly.

Agatha stood in the hall after she had gone, wondering what she meant and worried it was something awful. Then she went searching for her father and found him in the library, reading his newspaper and smoking one of his horrid cigars.

He looked up at her with an easy smile. “Agatha! Did the countess wish you well?” he said, but there was something in his eyes that made her think the smile was a façade. Why had she not realized before that he was keeping secrets from her? They had always been close, but lately, with everything that had happened with Richard and Donal, Agatha had let her grasp on matters slip.

“She did wish me well. Father, she said you were having papers drawn up in preparation for our wedding. Is that true? I tried to tell you that our engagement was going to be a long one and there was no hurry for the wedding.” She sat down then, because the look on his face was distressing.

“What else did she tell you?” he asked quietly. “I thought I had hidden it well, but Jennie has a way of ferreting out the truth.”

“She didn’t tell me anything, Father. She just said I should talk to you.”

He nodded and folded his paper clumsily and set it down. He left his cigar in the ashtray and watched as the bright spark went out.

“You would tell me if there was something wrong?” Agatha went on, struggling with the fear that what her father was not telling her was that he was ill. She had lost her mother. Surely she wasn’t about to lose her father too?

His face cleared, and he reached out to pat her hand. “No, no, my dear, it is nothing like that. I assure you I am hale and hearty. Unlike your poor mother before she left us.”

Agatha was so relieved she almost burst into tears. She gathered herself and sought something to say that was less fraught. “Mrs. Robinson seems agreeable.”

“She is,” her father agreed. “I’m glad you like her. We are both lonely, and it is nice to have someone with whom to share the happy moments.”

There was a silence, and Agatha was about to ask him again what was wrong when suddenly her father launched into speech.

“I spent a great deal of money when your mother was ill,” he said. “There were the doctors and the men who called themselves doctors, all with their hands out. There was the trip to Geneva to the private villa where I had been told the mountain air worked miracles. It didn’t seem to matter at the time how much money I spent, because keeping her was all that was important to me. But now I can see I was not thinking clearly. I was not thinking of the future.”

Agatha remembered those days, their firm belief that there must be something they could do to save her mother, if only they could discover what it was. It had been a way of pushing back the fear of losing her, and Agatha had readily agreed with every decision her father had made, never thinking of what it might mean for their lives after her mother was gone. “It is a money matter that is worrying you then?” she said quietly.

He seemed to slump and nodded wearily. “I have scrimped and saved as much as I can, but there have been expenses. The animals in the sanctuary eat up money faster than I can count it. I took out loans on the house and property, and now with leasing this house here in London, with everything that entails. I wanted you to win Richard back just as much as you did. But you have needed new dresses . . .” He looked up sharply. “Not that I would stop you buying them! You deserve to enjoy yourself, and I had hoped that Richard would see sense. I knew he would look after you in a way I fear I no longer can. When I get home, Agatha, I think the bailiffs will be knocking on our door. After the promises I made to your mother . . . I feel sick with worry.”

“Oh Father!” she cried. “You should have told me. I could have . . .” But what she could have done was beyond her. Although she had run their house and dealt with the sanctuary, her father had always paid the bills and provided money at her request. She had never delved into their financial situation—it had not occurred to her that she needed to. He had kept the truth from her too well.

“This is why I am so happy you are engaged to Lord Donal,” her father went on, smiling at her in a pained way. “He is rich, he is a duke’s son, and he will look after you far better than I can.”

“No, Father, that’s not true.”

But he shook his head. “It is true. I want you to be happy, and I believe Donal will make you happy. You should see your faces when you are together, my dear. No one could doubt how much you both care. And last night, it was obvious to me that you were in love.”

Agatha tried to find something to say that would not destroy his hopes but there was nothing. Her father was pinning everything on her engagement to Donal, and if she told him it was all a game she did not know what he would do. He had only recently come out of the melancholy he had fallen into when her mother died. What if he sank back into it? What if this time it was worse?