One Scottish Lass - A Regency Time Travel Romance Novella



  One Scottish Lass

  A Regency Time Travel Romance Novella

  Book 1

  Lisa Shea

  Copyright © 2014 by Lisa Shea / Minerva Webworks LLC

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Lisa Shea

  Book design by Lisa Shea

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Visit my website at www.LisaShea.com

  ASIN B00NK3IACE

  ~ v5 ~

  Believe.

  One Scottish Lass

  Chapter 1

  England, 1802

  “Dreams do come true,

  If we only wish hard enough.

  You can have anything in life

  If you will sacrifice everything else for it.”

  -- James Matthew Barrie, Scottish author of Peter Pan

  Sorcha made what must have been the hundredth attempt to tuck her flame-red hair back into its bun, then frantically raced to catch up to her mother on the moonlit street of Bath. Her mother’s elegant, ivory dress shone beneath the stars, resplendent with its delicate embroidery and moonstones. Sorcha’s own dress was certainly the finest she had ever worn, but not nearly as stunning. Her mother would never allow her own entrance to be outdone by anyone – least of all her own daughter.

  Her mother turned, her coal-black eyes drilling into Sorcha through the crisp October air. Her voice was a hiss. “Don’t run,” she snapped. “A lady never runs. And did you actually wear your pearl earrings and necklace? I explicitly told you to wear the moonstone.”

  Sorcha’s hand went automatically to her throat. The jewelry set had been her grandmother’s and was her most prized possession. “Och, but mum –”

  Her mother’s hand flashed high and nearly descended on her. Sorcha knew it was only her mother’s fear that her daughter might enter the party with a large mark on her face that shielded her from harm.

  Her mother’s voice became laced with ice. “If I hear you use the word och just once tonight, I swear, I will whip your behind so severely that you will not be able to sit for a month.”

  Sorcha pressed her lips tight. Her mother barely believed in exercise; she spent most of each day shut up in her library, the curtains pulled tight, carefully applying creams and unguents to preserve her beauty. The one time she seemed to relish physical activity was when she selected a hickory switch and beat Sorcha for her latest infraction.

  Her mother was careful. The blows were always on the rear. Heaven forbid her daughter was marred in any public way which might interfere with a profitable marriage.

  Her mother’s arm snaked forward and a vise-tight grip clamped around Sorcha’s wrist. Sorcha bit back the cry of pain. She knew better than to agitate her mother tonight. Not when her mother had been planning this trip for months. Tonight was the culmination of intense effort, and if even the slightest thing went wrong, Sorcha knew she would pay dearly for it.

  Her mother’s voice drilled into her ear, echoing Sorcha’s thoughts. “If you do one thing to ruin our time at Master Davenport’s birthday celebration, I swear you will regret it.”

  Her mother straightened up again, her dark brown hair perfectly elegant, as always, within its carefully constructed bun. Her moonstone earrings dangled just so from either side of her china-smooth face. People often told her that she looked like Sorcha’s older sister. These were the only times that Sorcha’s presence made her mother smile.

  The pair continued down the row-house-lined street. It was fairly early, yet. A variety of citizenry were returning from a dinner, heading off to a show, or simply enjoying the night air. An elegant horse-and-carriage passed them, the driver looking smart in his black suit. Sorcha soaked in the sights. There was nothing like this back in her native Scotland.

  Sorcha’s mother paid them no mind. She had a single-minded focus on the path ahead of them. She barely glanced around as she approached the next intersection, took a right, and then plowed on through the night.

  Sorcha’s eyes went wide as they approached the next home. Crouched against a long, stone staircase was an emaciated man, huddled in ragged clothing against the sharp cold. Sorcha’s instinct was to go to him, to see if she could help in some way. He reminded her all too keenly of the poor crofters and dispossessed back in Scotland, driven out of their farms and lands by the British.

  She almost took a step toward the shivering wretch.

  One glance at her mother, though, and she knew she did not have that luxury. Sorcha’s mother made a wide circle around the man, glaring down at him in disdain. Sorcha bit her lip and hurried to stay behind her.

  Another block, another turn, and at last the destination row house was ahead. It was the largest along the block, of course, double-width, a full three stories high with elegant iron fencing along the street. The windows were all brightly lit with candles, competing with the full moon. Laughter streamed out from scattered open windows.

  A row of dark, elegant carriages waited along the street, horses tossing their heads in the brisk night air. Ahead of them an elderly man in black evening wear helped his white-haired wife as she stepped out onto a small stool.

  Sorcha stared at the woman in amazement. She had thought her own dress quite elegant, and her mother’s as the finest she’d ever seen. But both paled in comparison with the woman before them. The woman had shimmering peacock feathers elegantly positioned in her hair, mirroring her delicate skin. Moonstones the size of thumbs trailed along her neck. Her ivory-and-gold dress was worthy of Queen Charlotte herself. Cascades of pearls and sapphires glistened down its length, nestled into embroidered roses and gilded starbursts.

  Sorcha’s mother tossed her head. “New money,” she growled in Sorcha’s ear, a bit too loudly for Sorcha’s taste.

  The man turned his eyes to them, a glint of amusement in the rheumy orbs. Sorcha could see the single, elegant white rosebud tucked into his lapel. Then he returned to the task of tenderly helping his wife onto the neatly swept pavement and toward the stairs.

  Sorcha’s mother quickened her pace, apparently eager to reach the door before these interlopers. Sorcha stumbled as she strove to keep up. Somehow her mother managed to get to the first step a heartbeat before the elderly couple. Sorcha’s mother smirked at Sorcha in satisfaction as the two strode up the steps to reach the main door.

  Brass numerals shone to the left, indicating that this was the proper home, and the brass door knocker in the mahogany surface was freshly polished. A sharp pressure at Sorcha’s wrist reminded her of her duty. She reached forward and gave the knocker two solid raps.

  The second rap had barely finished sounding when the door pulled open. A meticulously groomed butler in his mid-thirties stood there in the crispest outfit Sorcha had ever seen. He looked over the two women with implacable calm.

  Sorcha’s mother spoke out clear and loud, her voice holding the perfect London accent, as if she had not spent the last twenty-one years of her life in Edinburgh married to the son of a Scottish Laird.

  “Mrs. McClintock and … daughter.” She bit out the last word as if it embarrassed her. Sorcha wondered if her mother had hoped that saying “sister” might be accepted.
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  The butler nodded, stepping back and holding the door open. “Please come in, madam.”

  To Sorcha’s relief, her mother released her death-grip on her hand, sweeping into the foyer as if she were taking charge of her new home. Sorcha stepped quietly behind, careful not to do anything to disturb her mother’s entrance. She had been ruthlessly trained over the years in how to behave. Her mother would expect all eyes to land on her, to show appreciation for her eternal beauty and impeccable style.

  Sorcha’s shoes clicked on the black and white marble tile floor, and her eyes drew up in amazement. The foyer was a full two stories high, with ivory candles glistening from every surface. Ahead of her, white marble stairs swept up and to the left, lined with a polished mahogany bannister. Along the walls were stunning portraits of middle-aged men and women tracing back several hundred years, judging by the progression of elegant outfits. Each frame seemed to be done completely in gold leaf. A mahogany sideboard with cherry inlay held a large crystal punch bowl along with twenty or so pewter cups.

  Sorcha’s mother spun on her, her eyes narrowing. “Close your gaping mouth – you look like a bampot,” she snapped. She almost grabbed for Sorcha’s arm, but apparently thought better of it. Sorcha knew that having her daughter in tow would interfere with her mother’s ability to create that grand entrance.

  Her mother instead threw back her shoulders, raised her head, and strode left into the large drawing room.

  Sorcha drew her eyes across the crowd of chattering people as she stepped into the room. A pianist in the far corner was playing quiet music which added a rhythm to the conversation. There was high-pitched laughter from an elderly woman to the right and a rumble of serious discussion from a pair of bushy-browed men to the left. The rest continued on at full volume, blissfully unaware of the star attraction in their midst.

  Sorcha wrapped her arms around herself. If this evening did not go exactly the way her mother had dreamed about, all these months, Sorcha knew who would bear the brunt of that anger.

  Then, to her great relief, a voice called out from the right. “Madeline! My darling! So, you braved the fierce highwaymen and trekked the long miles from that frost-land you now call home?”

  Her mother brightened, stepping forward to the woman who had spoken. They were both in their early forties, but where Sorcha’s mother was dark haired, waif-thin, and translucent-pale, this other woman was blonde, curvaceous, and ruddy. The two formally embraced, and then Sorcha’s mother stepped back.

  “Oh, Lydia, it’s been too long.”

  Lydia nodded. “It must be twenty-two years ago, now, that you left with that husband of yours for Edinburgh.”

  A sharp flare of annoyance lit Madeline’s eyes, quickly masked. Sorcha knew that any reference to her mother’s real age was sure to cause a problem. Her mother’s voice went tight. “I think it was only yesterday that I was twenty-two,” she corrected. She dropped her voice. “And I hear that your eldest daughter has finally found someone to marry her, after that awful, scandalous jilting?”

  Sorcha cringed at the censure in the comment, but Lydia blithely nodded. “Yes, to a man she adores,” she agreed. “We are quite pleased with the match.” She drew her eyes to Sorcha. “And this must be your own daughter, Sorcha! What is she, twenty-one?”

  Again the tension strung through Madeline’s brow, but she put a claw-like hand on Madeline’s back, pressing her forward. “Sorcha, say hello to your second aunt, Mrs. Bryson.”

  Lydia put her arms out. “Oh, my darling, do call me Lydia. And just ‘Aunt’ will do fine. We’re all family, after all.”

  Sorcha stepped forward to give her aunt a careful hug. Not too close, but not too distant, either. She knew her mom would be watching like a hawk for the exact perfect behavior.

  Madeline hooked her arm through Lydia’s. An interested gleam lit her eye. “My dear Lydia, we have so much to catch up on. Do tell me every last little thing that has happened since I was forced to leave home.”

  A blink of the eye, and the two merged into the sea of ivory muslin and black suits.

  Sorcha felt the press of the group close in on her. Even the melodious piano playing became tinny and sharp, slicing at her ears. The people around her, with their thick makeup and painted-on smiles, seemed no more real than the wall of paintings in the main hall. The strangers pressed … pressed …

  She stepped back, her feet clacking again on that black-and-white marble tile. She breathed in deeply from the relative coolness of the empty hall.

  Fresh bread.

  She took in another longer, deeper breath, and an authentic smile came to her lips. In her own home, she had found that the kitchens provided a haven - the one safe place for quiet relaxation and friendly conversation. Maybe the same would hold true here.

  She cautiously crept down the shadowed hallway, passing by elegant room after room. Each was swirling with immaculately dressed, carefully coiffed strangers in clothing worth more than the average crofter made in a year. She ignored it all. Her focus was on following the fragrant, rich scent of baking bread. It promised comfort and calm.

  Sorcha was well aware of what punishments she would face when the evening finally wound to an end – when her mother wearily dragged her back to their small apartment. Each perceived slight, each mild insult, would be replayed over and over again, with Sorcha somehow responsible for each one.

  Sorcha knew she would need every moment of serenity she could gather, to bolster her soul for what was to come.