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“Grandmother Ramsay died five years ago, the same year I came to live in Arbroath.”
A sudden thought occurred to Muriel. “Do I perchance look anything like her?”
Aileen pursed her lips, giving Muriel an assessing look. “Aye, a bit. She had your silver hair and gray eyes, but her face bore more lines. And she wore the linen-wincey of a fisherman’s wife, not silk, pearls and feathers of a titled lady.”
Unable to resist, Muriel flicked the feather in her hair ornament. “I do enjoy my pearls and feathers.”
“But like you,” Aileen added, “Grandmother Ramsay had a quiet dignity about her.”
“If you find in me a hint of the dignity possessed by your much-loved grandmother, I stand highly complimented.”
Aileen smiled. “You are such a dear.”
“That is my secret, but you must tell no one.” There was something about this young woman that intrigued Muriel. Emily had told her the girl designed ships, a most unusual pursuit for a young lady. Yet, her manner indicated she possessed the breeding and intelligence of a young woman raised to marry a man born to wealth and position.
Not every man would want such a challenge. But for the right man, no other woman would do.
“Enough about us old folks,” said Muriel. “We must see about you, my dear.” She patted Aileen’s hand. “And I shall help you. If no man is to your liking here in Scotland, then a year in London at my side will find you the perfect match. I am a very good judge of character, you know.”
Aileen laughed. “Oh I don’t doubt it for a minute, Muriel. William told me you matched him with Emily. But London? And marriage?” She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
Muriel fingered her pearls, thinking of all the matches she had made over the years. “What say you we forsake the tea for a glass of Madeira? And while we drink our wine, I shall tell you all about what lies in store for you should you accept my invitation to come to London.”
Exhausted from the long day, Ailie was nevertheless determined to pen a note in her diary before retiring for the night. So, with quill in hand, she scratched out a few lines.
20 December, second entry
Today I was kissed for the very first time. Oh, not the kiss of my brothers or another man in my family. Or even the kiss of Donald Innes after that dance in Aberdeen when I was sixteen. This was different. Nash Etienne Powell kissed me in the woods in a most passionate manner and I liked it. But what did it mean to him? He and his brother are older, more experienced. I hesitate to think how many women they have known. Perhaps Nash sees me only as a diversion for his holiday in Scotland. And now Muriel, Countess of Claremont, wants to take me to London to show me about. My thoughts are in a jumble. How could I leave Scotland? Might a year with Muriel be, as she says, “quite diverting”?
