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Chapter 13

Muriel relaxed onto the bench facing the frozen pond, warmed by the fire William had built for those retreating from the ice. Bundled up in her blue pelisse and hat, her hands warm in her large fox muff, she watched as her charges skated over the ice, laughing at near disasters averted only by quick action at the last moment.

The two black setters came to sit by the bench, their eyes fixed upon Aileen, turning their heads with their mistress’ every move. Muriel slipped one hand from her muff to pat their dutiful heads. She did so love a faithful dog.

Muriel patted the front of her coat, feeling beneath it the long strands of pearls she was never without. Into her mind came the memory of another day long ago. It was her first—and only—season and the man skating beside her was the young Earl of Claremont she’d only known a short while. The watchful gaze of her chaperone, a maiden aunt, had never left them as they glided over the ice.

“With your soft gray eyes, Muriel, you should wear pearls,” he had said, taking her hand. “Marry me and I will see that you have a strand fit for the most beautiful girl in all of London.”

She had laughed at his flattery, but she thrilled to his decisive candor. At the end of their skating, captivated by his sincerity, his intelligence and his determination to forsake all others for her, she had agreed to marry him. To this day, she was never without the pearls he had given her when they were wed. Their time together had been a joyous celebration of their love, his early death a torture. But she had no regrets, for the memories were sweet ones.

In the years that had passed, she had devoted herself to helping others find the same love she had known. If the Lord had granted her an eye for a good match, well then, Muriel would use it. She could credit several matches to her efforts.

Dismissing the memories, she looked toward Aileen, skating over the frozen pond with one of the Powell twins. From this distance, she could not discern which one, but recalling the way Nash Powell had looked at the girl the evening before, Muriel guessed it might be him.

Sir Martin’s wife, the young woman everyone called “Kit”, glided to a graceful stop in front of Muriel. “May I share your bench?”

“Please do and take me away from my reminiscing.”

“We can’t have that, Muriel, not with so much life going on around you.”

She offered Kit a hand as she stepped from the ice. Once seated, Kit unbuckled her skates and greeted the dogs. Gazing at the skaters circling around the pond, she said, “I want to do a bit of sketching before they tire of the ice.”

“How are your sketches coming?”

Kit picked up her sketchbook and pencils she had left on the bench when she took to the ice. “Quite well. I’ve only a few left and then I’ll add some at Christmas and Hogmanay.” She turned to a new page. “I’d like to do one of all of them skating on the pond. It’s so picturesque with the tall evergreens on one side and the sun low in the horizon silhouetting the skaters.”

“It is lovely here,” Muriel remarked, “but they do lose the light awfully early this far north.”

“’Tis worse than London,” said Kit, “but the light on the ice just now is truly magical.”

The dogs ran off just then, circling to where their mistress drew close to the edge of the pond.

Muriel considered her mood. “I find myself content to be in Arbroath. The company is good, the fires are warming and the orangery like the tropics. I think it will be a Christmas long remembered.”

“I agree. Martin has said so as well.” Kit took off her right glove and began to draw, glancing between the skaters and her sketchbook. “I do believe my husband is enjoying all the male company. It’s rare when he and his brothers are together in one place anymore. Nick’s often at sea and the twins are hardly ever in London.”

“Oh? And why is that? Do they sail frequently, too?”

“They used to, but this last year has kept them in England on some government business or other.”

“Hmm…” Muriel mused. “Does it have anything to do with ships, I wonder?”

“I don’t think so. At least Martin has not mentioned that. I hesitate to think they are involved in some dangerous business.”

“Surely nothing is more dangerous than sailing the Atlantic,” quipped Muriel.

Kit paused in her sketching. “You wouldn’t say that if you’d been with Martin and me two years ago. In Pentridge, you may recall, there was a rebellion put down by the hussars.”

“Ah yes, I remember. A nasty business that.”

“It was, but you are right to say that sailing the Atlantic is also dangerous. Tara and I worry whenever our husbands go to sea without us. And I know Mrs. Powell worries whenever her Simon is on a long voyage. When we can, we sail with them.”

“But the children…”

“Yes,” said Kit. “Nowadays, the little ones keep us women at home. But it will not always be so. Too, when the men return and the families get together, we have a marvelous time.”

As Muriel had come to know them, she believed the Powells a fine family. “Only two more of the brothers to see to the altar,” she muttered.