Ilsa thought of the tall, handsome fellow who had embraced her so protectively. “It was marvelous.”
“Staying out until all hours isn’t dignified,” said Jean sternly. “Miss St. James has the right idea. Stay home and stay out of trouble.”
Ilsa shared a glance with her friend. Agnes would have loved to be in that oyster cellar beside Ilsa, dancing and drinking punch and enjoying herself.
But Agnes’s mother thought oyster cellars were no place for unmarried girls—even though plenty of ladies went these days. It had been her condition for allowing Agnes to come stay with Ilsa: she must follow all the rules of behavior that she was held to at home. Agnes had been so keen to come, and Ilsa so keen to have her, both had agreed.
“It is the right idea to stay out of trouble,” said Agnes demurely. “Which is why I must go if you are able to see to Robert. My mother will be expecting me in the shop.”
“Indeed, I shall be entirely proper all day, visiting my solicitor and taking tea with Papa,” Ilsa told her.
“That is excellent,” exclaimed Jean approvingly. “I knew you would be a steadying influence on her, dear Miss St. James.”
“Thank you, Miss Fletcher,” replied Agnes, choosing not to contradict this provocative statement. Well, Jean was not her aunt; Agnes did not need to argue with her over this or anything. Ilsa said nothing.
Jean eyed the crumpled draperies. “Now that these are down, they might as well be cleaned. I’ll send the maid in to get them.”
“Of course.” Ilsa had learned to accept an olive branch when one was offered.
When her aunt had gone, she tossed aside the cap from her head. She only wore it to prevent paint getting in her hair, no matter how Jean scolded her that a widowed lady ought to wear it all the time. “Shall we have a leg of lamb tonight? I consumed so many oysters last night, I can’t face anything from the sea for a week.”
Agnes made a small grimace. “Alas, I’m dining at home. Mother sent word my brother has returned, and she’ll have us all around her table again for the first time in over a year.”
“Of course,” said Ilsa after a tiny pause. “Welcome home the captain with my best regards.”
“Thank you.” Agnes rolled her eyes. “He’s hinted he brings news from our cousins in England. My mother is hopeful it’s a legacy of some sort. She’s already begun scouring listings in the New Town, certain we shall be moving to a grand new house.”
“You are not as certain, I take it,” observed Ilsa.
“Not in the slightest.” Agnes pursed her lips. “That family never cared for us. I cannot believe they’re about to start now, not in any meaningful way. And even if they did, Mother would insist Drew take all the benefit—aside from her new house, of course.”
“Why should he take all the benefit?” asked Ilsa in surprise.
Agnes shook her head. “It would be only fair. He joined the army when he was eighteen and sent his pay to Mother so we would have food and clothes.”
“Brothers do such things?” said Ilsa in mock astonishment. “Remarkable!”
Agnes laughed. “He’s a good sort. If there is a legacy—which I highly doubt!—he may have it with my blessing. After a dozen years in the army, he’s earned it.”
She smiled. “How generous you are. He must be a good sort.” One of her favorite things about the St. James family was their closeness and honest affection for each other.
“He is! At least, he can be. You’ll like him.”
An image rose in her mind, a sober, straightlaced fellow in a red coat who spoke in single syllables and avoided anything fun. He’d gone into the army when faced with penury, after all—not for him the usual escape routes of marrying a rich girl, gambling, or piracy. What’s more, he chose the English army. Not very dashing, joining the English.
Unbidden she thought again of the tall, dark-haired Scot from the oyster cellar. That one had a bit of the devil in him. Too bad she would never see him again.
“A dutiful army man who likes to write letters teasing about possible legacies.” Ilsa tapped her chin and pretended to think. “Doesn’t seem likely, but one never knows.” Agnes just laughed.
She walked with her friend down the stairs. “I do hope you’ll meet him.” Agnes put on her hat. “I doubt he’ll be in town long.”
“Perhaps,” said Ilsa vaguely. Even his name was prissy and proper. Andrew the Saint. Saint Andrew the Self-Sacrificing. He sounded dreary and dull. She wouldn’t refuse to meet him, but neither was she eager.
Agnes left for her mother’s shop in Shakespeare Square. Ilsa went into the butler’s room, where Robert stood watching Mr. MacLeod polish the silver. At her entrance, he sighed in relief. “Mrs. Ramsay! I didn’t like to disturb you, but—”
“I know.” She smiled as Robert came up to her, his big brown eyes hopeful. She bent and kissed his forehead. “Yes, my darling, just a moment.” She turned back to Mr. MacLeod. “Two for dinner tonight. Miss St. James will be dining with her family. No fish or shellfish. Lamb, if you can find a prime leg of it.”
“Very good, ma’am.” He smiled and bowed.
Ilsa left the room, Robert at her heels. Jean had disappeared. Ilsa would wager a handsome sum that by dinner, that loose curtain ring would have been repaired, the drapery sponged and pressed, and the whole thing hung back on the rail. Jean vigorously fended off any hint that they weren’t the most eminently proper house on the street.
Ilsa had meant it when she said she didn’t want to argue over that, but it seemed inevitable. Jean militantly maintained her status and respectability. At times it seemed like that was all Jean did—fuss over the china, the draperies, the exact height of a hemline, or the precise way to hold a fan. A slight slip greeting a new acquaintance would provoke a lengthy scold. A low-cut gown might make her tight-lipped for days.
Not only did Ilsa crave an escape from all that fussing and fretting, she didn’t think most of it was important. And she was so tired of toeing the many, many lines laid down by people who told her that all her desires and interests were wrong or unseemly.
She put on her jacket and hat and opened the door, waiting patiently as Robert made his way down the steps. “Well done,” she told him, and he nudged her elbow in reply. She smiled. Robert was the perfect companion. He couldn’t dance in an oyster cellar, but neither did he scold her, or tell her she was too bold, or say anything disagreeable at all. She patted him on the back and they set off, side by side, for the open fields at the foot of Calton Hill.
This was the part of Edinburgh she loved best. Away from the increasingly dingy and cramped confines of the Old Town, away from the construction dust and noise of the New Town, just a bright, windy day on the hill with no one but Robert. Here she felt at peace, free from society and propriety.
“Should we run away to the Highlands?” she wondered aloud. “I’ve heard they are beautiful and wild, and not filled with disapproving matrons.”
Robert shook his head, plodding along beside her.
“Too cold? Too far?” She sighed, running fingers over his back. “You’re probably right. Glasgow? No, too near, and too like Edinburgh.” She gave him a little pat. “I have it! We could hide ourselves on a ship to America and go on a grand adventure.”