Chapter Text
My eyes followed the dust cloud trailing the carriage as it sped away—lighter now, freed from the burden of my luggage, which sat open in front of me like a monument to excess, fingers brushing over silk and leather with practiced care. Dresses folded with precision, shoes wrapped in silk, a selection of hats for every conceivable weather condition, my two favourite parasols—one ivory lace, one navy with gold trim— and an entire arsenal of beauty products.
I knelt beside it, hands working the unfamiliar task of unpacking, normally, this was someone else’s job. A maid. A valet. Arthur, if he were feeling generous. But Arthur was gone, and I was alone in a guest room that smelled faintly of lavender and wood polish.
The room itself was modest. Floral wallpaper, a small writing desk, a wardrobe that looked like it had survived a war. The window overlooked the paddock, where I watched the cows again for a moment, as they acted as if nothing in the world could possibly matter. I wished I could be that stupid. Or that free. They clustered near the pond, just as they had when I first arrived. I’d liked them then—still did, if I was honest. But I wasn’t here to like anything.
A vase of wildflowers sat on the bedside table—sweet, unassuming, and clearly meant to be welcoming. I hated that it worked.
I wasn’t dense. I knew it was overkill. I knew it was rude to arrive with half my closet and a full vanity. But if my father expected his daughter to be a symbol of wealth and status, I’d give him exactly what he wanted—or at least what he asked for.
I folded a silk blouse and placed it in the drawer with more care than necessary. The fabric felt too fine for this place. Too clean. It didn’t belong here, and neither did I. The thought made my chest tighten. I glanced at the mirror above the dresser. My reflection stared back—flushed cheeks, sun-missing skin, hair pinned in a style that had wilted slightly in the heat. The silence was thick. No ticking clock, no distant hum of carriages or city life. Just birdsong and the occasional lowing of cattle.
I refocused my gaze, smoothing my skirts, and moved to hang my dresses in the wardrobe. The hangers were mismatched. One had a splinter. I made a mental note to request replacements, then immediately scolded myself. There was no one to request anything from. This wasn’t Manchester. This wasn’t home.
“Eve! Lass!” a voice chirped from the hallway.
I froze. I’d heard the thudding footsteps moments earlier—unmistakably eager, unmistakably Scottish—and had chosen to ignore them, hoping the source who I had regrettably made eye contact with through the window earlier would take the hint and retreat. No such luck.
My eyes narrowed at his reflection in the window just as the door swung open without ceremony. Uninvited and unwelcome.
Johnny Mactavish. Soap, apparently. Still puppy-like, still loud. His grin was so wide it looked like it might split his face in two. He looked like someone who hadn’t yet learned the world could be cruel. Or maybe he had and just didn’t care—typical of his kind, I supposed. Loud, unrefined, and far too comfortable in a house that should have never been his.
“Eve!” he beamed, stepping into the room like it was his own. “You’re really here!”
“I’m aware,” I said coolly, turning to face him. “I was present for the journey.”
He laughed, undeterred. “You remember me, aye? It’s been years. You used to chase me round the garden.”
“I also used to eat dirt and cry when my bonnet got wet. We all have regrets.”
He blinked, then grinned wider. “Still sharp as ever.”
“And you’re still loud.”
He looked around the room, eyes landing on my parasols and silk gloves with something like awe. “You brought all this?”
“I travel prepared.”
“For a royal wedding?”
“For exile.”
He tilted his head, clearly not catching the bitterness. “Well, it’s good to have ye back. We’ll catch up later, yeah?”
“I’m unpacking.”
“Right, right,” he said, backing toward the door. “Just wanted to say hi.”
“Consider it said.”
He lingered a moment longer, then finally turned to slip out. And just when I thought I had been freed from decoding Scottish blabbering, he bumps straight into who I recognise as Mary Price, my uncle’s wife. Uncle John had traded velvet for mud, titles for calluses. My father called him a disgrace more times than I could count. I wasn’t sure I disagreed. “Och, Johnny! Mind where ye’re stompin’—I’ve got tea hotter than the devil’s breath and cake that’s no keen on flyin’!” She readjusts the tray with tea, a slice of cake, and a folded note in her arms.
“Sorry, Auntie.” he eyed the tray, “But if the cake’s still intact, I reckon Evelyn won’t miss it. What’s the lass even need that for? Not exactly a tiring journey in the back of a carriage.” He shot me a grin before sneaking his hand not-so-subtly towards the slice. I replied with a scowl.
Mary smacked his hand and walked over to me with a smile. She smelled of flour and rosemary and smiled like she meant it. I didn’t trust it. My father had said Scottish women were stubborn and sentimental—dangerous in their own way. “Thought you might need something sweet,” she said softly.
I nodded, accepting the tray, “Thank you.”
She glanced around the room, then turned toward the hallway. “Soap,” I internally groaned at the nickname she called out gently. “Come on, let her settle.”
I heard him huff, not sparring him a glance, then his footsteps retreating for good.
Mary gave me one last smile and closed the door behind her.
I placed the tray on the desk and unfolded the note. When had Arthur passed this onto my uncle? My father’s handwriting glared back at me. Sharp, slanted, impatient.
‘ Evelyn,
I trust you’ve arrived. Do not embarrass me further.
Arthur will return Thursday to check in. Behave yourself.’
Ah, always a man of few words. I stared until they blurred. Then I folded the note, placed it beneath the tray, and turned back to the window. Outside, the cows continued to graze, and Simon continued to lean against the fence, watching the Mactavish boy as he approached, the Scot already rambling to him in an animated manner.
What did my cousin see in that farmhand and what did that farmhand see in my cousin?
Both were equally a bother to me.