Edwina (4 page)

What
was
the problem anyway?

Watching the Scot as he chose his silver was
more important at the moment. Breakfast in her small apartment
usually consisted of a simple bowl of cereal or a tart popped in
the toaster. When was the last time she’d eaten at a table like
this? Then she remembered—at her father’s wedding. The classy
Cecelia had planned the entire affair. She and her actress mother
had definitely put on the show for their guests, while her father
sat goo-goo eyed at his lovely new bride. She remembered the entire
scene and decided even then that her wedding, if there ever was
one, would be simple. Profoundly simple.

But now she had to
concentrate on what Cecelia taught her that very first year of
their parents’ marriage. Salad fork, dinner fork. Edwina
sighed.
Ah, what’s the use? I’m going to
be here only one day, so does it really matter?

The five-course meal ended with a miniature
bowl of flam pudding. “This is wonderful, Bertilda,” Edwina called
out and knew instantly she had fumbled.

Finally, after a few moments of deathly
silence, he said, “Tis only that you complimented the food to the
help, not to the host.” He smiled.

“Ah, a foolish
blunder
indeed
.”
Edwina took up the Scottish accent.

Alex Dunnegin’s eyes lit up, and he did the
most unusual thing.

He laughed. Out loud. Ilana smiled
indulgently over the rim of her teacup. The noise rang through the
large room and several

persons, all dressed in black and white,
appeared at the two doors.

“Something amiss, sir?” Bertilda asked while
the others stared.

“Nothing amiss. Go back to your duties.” The
Scot laughed again.

“
So... there is a bit of
fun to be had in a castle.” Edwina could not believe her
ears.

Indeed she must have said the words aloud
because the Scot’s voice rang out in laughter again.

And again Bertilda appeared at the door, the
strangest look on her face. Her prognosis must have been right
because Edwina saw her pursed lips turn up slightly before she gave
them her back once again.

Had she, Edwina the Dour, a propensity for
humor?

Well, was it impossible? God had created the
heavens and the earth. Could He not create basic common sense and a
touch of humor in the same person?

The thought whisked through her mind. The
first of its kind that she could remember. When had she heard
laughter like that? Especially to her very own comment . . .
perhaps she did have a penchant for humor. Edwina smiled and picked
up her dinner fork... or was it the salad fork?

Chapter 7

T
he meal ended soon enough, but the magic remained. Edwina
could sense among the help that hearts were lighter. There were
whisperings behind hands and smiles that seemed to be pinned on
her. Waiting for Laird Dunnegin to release them from the table, she
folded her hands and sat quietly.

“Dismissed.” He waved a hand.

Ilana, stone-faced, stood and retreated from
the room like she was walking on water. She disappeared up the
steps.

The Laird turned to her, bowed slightly in
her direction, said, “We shall meet this evening up in the
ballroom. Bertilda will dress you.” and stalked from the room, his
booted feet echoing across the black and white marbled floors.

Dress me?

Well, now what do I
do?
Edwina, still happy from her recent
success, was left to her own devices.

“The library,” she whispered. Seeing no one
about, she began to wander the corridors seeking her favorite
pastime— reading. Once found, she knew she would not leave the
blessed array of reading material at her disposal for many
hours.

After several peeks into open doors, she
spotted books. Stepping into the corner room, she went straight for
the windows. They were at ground level and she watched as a small
cart, being pulled by a miniature horse, meandered down a long
pathway. Up the slopes and down again.

Finally turning from the view, with a
reverence borne out of respect, she ran her fingers along the fine
array of books. The top shelf was far above her head, a small
ladder rolled along for reaching volumes. After a few minutes she
spotted a favorite. In light of the fact she wanted to write her
own sixteenth century novel she might as well create the ambience
in her mind.

“Ah,
Emma
by Jane Austen,” Edwina
whispered. “Truly a work of beauty and truth.” She sighed and held
the book as if it were made of gold, turned the heavy ancient
volume in her hand, and lifted it to her nose. Her eyes roamed the
room for the coziest corner and stopped. Next to three very tall
windows with heavy burgundy drapes now open to the sun, she found
two brown leather chairs. She chose the sunniest spot. The chair
was big enough for the tall Scot and consumed her entire body, all
fifteen extra pounds.

“Heavenly.” She sighed, all comedic thoughts
gone from her head. She would never need to take a drink or a drug
to feel this high. Books and their stories were enough.

Hours must have passed. Once she looked up to
stretch and think about finding a bathroom, she saw the sunlight
had moved across the floor and now rested high on the rows of
books. Finding no clock, then deciding she didn’t need one, she
rose from her seat, rubbed the muscles in her neck, shook the
feeling back into her legs, and set out to find the ladies
room.

The click of her flats on the marble floors
signaled her presence. Everything about the castle was quiet, so
she removed her shoes and swung her arm, shoes dangling
precariously from her fingertips. She had not known such

peace and fulfillment in many months. She
wandered back to the library and walked the hallowed floor in her
stocking feet, reading book titles and hefting huge volumes.

Had she, Edwina Emily Blair, lived such a
boring life that a few moments of quiet solitude in a handsome
Scot’s castle could find her so exhilarated? Suddenly a thought
flew into her mind and landed like a robin settling on the highest
branch of a tree. This was the story she was seeking, the one she
wanted to write. She was living the material right this minute.

Slapping her temple, she began to allow her
mind to wander. What if... what if an American met a Scot in a
castle? A beautiful woman, with all the right attributes? What
would the result be? And it was born. The story of her dreams.

Could she perhaps become a published author
someday? She knew books well enough, enjoyed reading voraciously,
and met various authors and editors at book signings. Perhaps this
was why God had interrupted her life. To bring her to this place,
for this reason, just like Esther of the Old Testament.

Stranger things have
happened
, she mused.

“Lass, I have been searching for ye.”
Bertilda bustled into the library, arms filled with linens. “They
are waiting dinner for ye.”

“Me? Why did they wait?” Edwina pulled her
thoughts out of her magic writing world and into the present.

“Ye are a guest.” Bertilda’s head turned to
give her a look. “Be aboot your way.” She waved her off like a
fly.

“Thank you, Bertie... I mean Bertilda.”
Edwina picked up her pace, stopped, put on her flats, and began the
long walk toward the dining hall. At least they would know she was
on her way since the tapping could be heard echoing against the
stone walls. She must hurry. Being late was not something she
admired in anyone.

She entered the dining room through the
large, arched doorway to find the Scot and Ilana standing to the
side of the table talking. Not exactly friendly-like, if she had
her guess.

“Ah, our guest has been found.” Mr. Dunnegin
nearly galloped up to her, so long were his legs and his
stride.

“Where have you been?” came the annoying
voice of Ilana, her Spanish dialect more pronounced. Her face was
not as beautiful at the moment. There was a definite scowl upon it,
Edwina noted.

“Please, I am sorry. I was reading in the
library.” She started to scurry to her chair, but was beaten by the
Scot. Apparently he insisted upon seating his guests at every meal.
She shrugged and allowed him. Perhaps it was Scottish manners. What
did she know about Scottish nobility?

He seated Ilana next, much to his fiancée’s
dismay, for she sent a rather menacing look toward Edwina across
the very large table. Edwina caught it like a softball to the
stomach.

Dinner was boiled corned beef, potatoes,
cabbage, and pumpernickel bread.

“Fit for a queen,” Edwina said with a sigh as
she ate heartily.

“You being the queen?” Ilana suggested.

“Me? Oh no... that’s not what I meant . . .”
Edwina stumbled over her words. She wasn’t a fighter, especially in
the game of confrontation. Never quick enough with a retort, she
was always the one who needed to think an entire evening before
coming up with the right response.

“Ye will join us at the celebration this eve,
will ye not?” the Scot said, effectively saving her from further
embarrassment.

“Thank you. But I have work
to do tonight.” There was no way she was going to have the wicked
Ilana chomping at her heels all evening. Edwina came up with the
excuse, and even to her it sounded true.
Lord, forgive me for lying
.

“
Work? What could be so
important to reject your knight in shining armor on the one day of
the year he turns thirty?”

“Oh... well . . .” Edwina snuck a look at
Ilana whose barely veiled gaze was clearly pushing her to decline
the invitation. “I can’t.” She turned to Dunnegin, sorry to fib so
outrageously, but then again she could read a book. That was work.
Now that she had a story line in mind, she was in fact telling the
truth. She would begin her novel this very evening. “Truly, I must
begin my writing tonight,” she said and sounded convincing even to
herself.

“Ah, the writer.”

“Yes, sir. I will begin my
work tonight,” Edwina repeated, hoping she might have sounded a
little like Jane Austen when she knew she would write
Emma
.

“And what writing shall you do while you’re
on the bus touring all of Scotland’s best castles? Will you write
your book then?”

“I... well... I will... I
will tour, then write... in the evenings, of course.” Edwina knew
her voice faltered.
Besides
, she thought,
I’ll be out of here by tomorrow, if the hotel
clerk cooperates.

“As ye wish, lass.... But I can tell you now,
you will not be worthy of a single line of writing after you have
walked the sacred halls of so many castles.”

Ilana placed her white linen napkin across
her plate, which signaled she was through with the small talk.

True to his nature, Laird Dunnegin rose and
pulled out the chair for his fiancée. Edwina knew she would expect
the same of her beloved. When he stood behind her chair, setting
her free, she made for the door.

It was none of her business. She may be a
guest, but she did not have to be an unwanted entity in the room
when the Scot had obviously hurried home to meet his fine lady
friend... and here she was interrupting who knows what.

There were some customs women knew about
other women, that no amount of protocol would change. And this one
Edwina was sure about. She made it her mission to disap- pear for
the evening, birthday celebration or no.

Chapter 8

T
hankfully, Mr. Dunnegin did not stop her. Climbing up the
stairs on tiptoe, she hurried away to her room. The beautiful Ilana
was nowhere to be seen.

It was already half past six. They had just
finished dinner. What time was the party anyway? Did they always
start parties so late? And where were all the decorations? She
hadn’t seen any. Of course, she had only been to her own room, the
parlor, dining room, and library. What fun it would be to have the
castle all to herself. To wander around, feeling the carved wood
beneath her hand, dreaming of ancient days and bygone eras.

Surrounded by so much beauty, it was
difficult not to ensconce herself in the writing of her story. But
why shouldn’t she? The entire evening was ahead of her, and she had
already declined the birthday celebration. Why not get started?

Edwina grabbed a yellow-lined pad and two
pencils, then ran down the stairs, hoping no one was lurking about.
Walking the halls of so great a castle, she began to make notes.
Descriptions of carvings, busts, portraits on the wall.

Ornate desks, and wood and stone floors. Oh,
and the decorative fireplaces. Cecilia would have been in
heaven.

Hating the clip-clop of her shoes, she left
them on the first stair. She could muse without being
discovered.

After a walk-through of the first floor, she
tiptoed up the stairs to the second floor where her room was.
Careful not to open any closed doors, she slipped down the corridor
making notes. Door handles made of ivory, wood trimming measuring
ten inches high, along the floor and at ceiling, windows of unusual
sizes and shapes. Suddenly, in the middle of a note she heard
voices. From somewhere up above. The parapets. Wow. That was
something she needed to do. Get outdoors in the morning light
tomorrow and make notes of the decorative towers, the courtyards,
the gardens... oh, there was so much to do before leaving.

Then, smashing right into her dream world,
came several servants all carrying trays covered with huge domes.
“Pardon me, miss,” each said as they scurried by and through a
small door.