Her Scottish Groom

May 1875

Tonight called for some act of rebellion, no matter how insignificant. Diantha Quinn crept across the thick Aubusson carpet, her way lit by the lamp she carried.

The soft wool tickled her bare feet as the dancing light illuminated a room she had come to loathe. Swags of burgundy velvet draped the solid mahogany four-poster bed and the ornately carved mirror over the vanity. Combined with the gilding splashed on furniture and knickknacks, they lent the room an air both sumptuous and oppressive.

She picked up her quilted wrapper, uttering a small noise of distaste. Although her mother adored the garment’s vivid apple green color, the shade gave her own skin a sickly cast.

The alternative of stepping out of her bedroom wearing only her nightgown did occur to her. She managed a small smile at the thought of her family’s collective horror should she do so. However,
considerations of modesty and good breeding aside, drafts filled the halls of her family’s New York City mansion even in May. She sighed and tied the corded sash around her waist. After sliding her feet into an equally garish pair of slippers, she approached her door and turned the handle.

When she cracked it open, the footman drowsing against the corridor wall opposite startled to attention. “Now, miss, you know your father’s orders. You’re to stay in your room till it’s time for you to dress tomorrow.” Despite the sympathy in his voice, he took a purposeful step toward her.

“Eoghan, I’ve spent the last week imprisoned in here. Please, I just want to go to the library and read.” She hoped the use of his real name would soften the young servant’s heart.

Eoghan, who had been rechristened Edward because Mrs. Quinn feared appearing too Irish, crossed his arms. “Like you said you were going to visit Mrs. Schuyler last month and nearly got all the way to the railway station before they caught you?”

Diantha shuddered at the reminder of her abortive escape attempt and its aftermath. The servant’s voice softened.

“Miss, I feel bad for you, I truly do. But your father says he’ll send me back to Ireland if I let you get away. You know I can’t chance that.”

“I know.” The twenty-year-old footman, older than she by only a year, had confided that most of his earnings went home to his mother in County Tyrone. Her father ordered his household with the same ruthlessness that characterized his business dealings. It was not an idle threat.

“I promise I’ll come back. You have my word.” A
grimace twisted her face. “Besides, as my parents pointed out last month, I have no other choice.”

How odd to see pity in the eyes of a stripling whose yearly wages did not equal the cost of one of her hats. The boy sighed.

“You’d better, or I’ll be hauled aboard the next packet to Belfast.” He cleared his throat. “You know, miss, Lord Rossburn isn’t a bad sort. For a Scot, anyway.”

“The difficulty is that I’m going to be his wife, not his maid.” She muttered the words to herself as she made her way down the corridor. A flash of bitterness coursed through her. “Servants can give notice if they’re unhappy. I’ll be tied to him till I die.”

She stared moodily ahead of her. Lord Rossburn had been a complete stranger last summer. Tomorrow she would marry him in a ceremony orchestrated to bring her parents into the inner circle of New York society.

The whisper of her nightclothes echoed ahead of her along the hall to the marble stairway. Faces painted by European masters gazed unseeing out of ornate frames as the glow of her lamp passed. The flicker of light on the statues her father collected lent the impression of movement. As a girl, the illusion had terrified her, but tonight she kept her eyes fixed straight ahead.

Even the thirteenth-century French gargoyles guarding the top of the grand staircase failed to unnerve her now. Her older brothers had named them Buster and Willie. During her childhood, the boys had prevented her from wandering the halls
after bedtime by assuring her that the stone carvings came to life and roamed through the mansion.

   Her siblings anticipated the prospect of her marriage to a lord as enthusiastically as her parents did. They took no pains to hide their delight at her engagement, and often spoke of the cachet of claiming a British peer as a brother-in-law.

She had tried, cautiously, to correct them once. She recalled the occasion with painful clarity. The Quinns had dined
en famille
that evening, a rare occurrence.

“I don’t believe he thinks of himself as British.” As she and her fiancé had yet to converse privately during their courtship, she could not be sure of this, but she did notice he bristled slightly when referred to as an Englishman.

They sat in the pool of light shed by a single chandelier over their table. On either side of them, two other tables stretched the length of the immense room, their far ends lost in the shadows. Enormous antique tapestries lined the room, their age-dulled colors enhancing the gloomy atmosphere.

“Of course he does, the British have been united for a hundred and seventy years.” James, the elder, helped himself to a generous slice of layer cake.

“Besides, he doesn’t complain about it.” Thomas took a last swallow of vintage Bordeaux and handed his glass to a waiting footman. “Not that he’ll dare gripe if he wants to get his hands on any of our money. Right, Father?”

Harold Quinn tore his attention away from his
plate long enough to glare at his younger son. “I’m not dead yet, boy. I earned my own fortune and I’ll damned well decide who gets it when I’m dead and gone.” His jowls quivered. “Not that I can see any business advantage whatever in marrying my daughter off to some overbred dandy.”

In all fairness, Diantha did not think his lordship remotely dandified or effeminate, but chose not to venture her opinion.

“Mr. Quinn, we discussed the matter thoroughly when we agreed to Diantha’s engagement. Kindly stop speaking in such a vulgar manner, all of you!” Still tall and slim after fifty years and three children, with only a few strands of silver in her dark blond hair, Amalthea Helford Quinn’s fragile beauty belied a will every bit as unyielding as her husband’s. Noticing the piece of cake in front of her daughter, she rang the small silver bell at her right hand.

“Edward, Miss Quinn does not care for dessert. Please take it away.”

“Mama, I should very much like to have some this evening. Could I not eat just a small piece?” She gazed longingly at the chocolate-frosted confection Eoghan whisked out from under her fork.

“Do not contradict me, young lady. If I let you eat everything you wanted, you’d swell up like a hot air balloon.” The words caused a wave of heat to mount slowly into Diantha’s cheeks. No matter how hard she tried, she could never live down her mother’s disappointment in having borne a daughter who did not match her own beauty.