The Scottish Companion Read Free Page B

happens.”
    “One doesn’t die,” Gillian said, compelled to speak by the utter hopelessness in the girl’s voice. “In some situations, with some men, it’s pleasurable.” More than pleasurable. The act of love could exalt the senses, transport a place, a room, a mood into something almost hallowed.
    “There is nothing you could say to make the situation more bearable, Gillian. I do not have your childish view of the world. I see it as it is, not as I wish it to be.”
    This conversation was the longest she’d ever had with Arabella. In fact, it was the most she’d ever heard Arabella speak.
    Gillian glanced at the girl, knowing there was nothing further she could say. Arabella had it right. In the end, she’d be married, regardless of what she wanted.
    But what Arabella didn’t know was that marriage was so much more preferable to other alternatives. Being alone, for one. Being left adrift without anyone to love, or to love her.
    But she had loved well, and that memory must sustain her for the rest of her life. Yet, at times like this, when others were rejecting love’s potential and promise, she felt increasingly lonely. She would have been satisfied to be in Arabella’s place, to be given so much without any effort, to be promised respect, and protection. All Arabella had to do was marry.
    For the first time, Gillian truly envied the girl, and wasn’t that a foolish emotion?

Chapter 3
    G illian sat back against the cushions of the carriage, wishing suddenly that Dr. Fenton had not requested that she accompany them to Rosemoor. Requested? Hardly the correct word. It wasn’t a request—more a command, rather. What other choice had she? If she wasn’t Arabella’s companion, she’d have no occupation at all.
    She should have taken advantage of the occasional trips to Inverness and visited a few of the milliners there. She could have seen the newest styles, perhaps practiced decorating a few of her own bonnets. Then she could have taken the results and solicited a position. She was talented in embroidery, evident from the fact that her work could be found in abundance throughout Dr. Fenton’s house. Surely she could have shown her work to a few dressmakers, and obtained a position with one of them.
    Or perhaps she was only being foolish, and there was nothing she could do, no talent she possessed significant enough to support herself. Therefore, she packed her trunk and watched as it was lashed to the wagon holding all of Arabella’s belongings.
    Gillian couldn’t help but wonder what the earl would think of Arabella’s trousseau: two trunks of books; one of her personal belongings, such as the silver-backed mirror and brush she’d inherited from her mother, and a porcelain tooth cup from France. One trunk held her clothing, and the last—or the most important, according to Arabella—was a trunk containing a male skeleton.
    Not that it was possible to tell, from even a studied glance, what gender Roderick had once been. Gillian had not spent an appreciable time contemplating him. She could still remember when she’d opened the bureau in Arabella’s sitting room the first time and found herself facing a grinning skull. She’d taken one look at Roderick and clamped her hand over her mouth to contain a scream.
    “Oh, do not be childish, Gillian,” Arabella had said. “It’s only a skeleton. We shall all look like Roderick one day.”
    “There are certain things I don’t wish to know,” Gillian had retorted. “The exact hour and day of my death, for one, and my appearance after that moment.”
    She’d ignored—or tried—the skeleton after that day.
    Now Arabella sat at Gillian’s side, opposite her father. Her head was bent, her attention directed at the open book on her lap. Gillian knew she wasn’t reading, however. Arabella grew ill when reading in a carriage—one of the few personal details she knew about the girl. Arabella disliked greens, and favored lamb with mint jelly. She