Scotland, 1818
A ruined baron’s daughter walks five miles through a Highland storm to take a post that may not exist.
She has spent six years making herself easy to overlook. London has finally given her a reason to run.
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At the end of the road
A castle with no mirrors left in it.
He had them taken down the year he came home from the war. The village has not seen him since.
He opens the door himself
and tells her there is no position.
The storm makes refusal impossible. One night becomes a winter.
She is never once polite to him.
That is how he will know, far too late, that her courtesy is the sound of a door closing.
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A Reverie Original
“Well, Meredith, you have really done it now.”
Wind drove the rain beneath my bonnet and pressed my wet skirts against my legs. Tolly shifted inside the basket under my cloak, and the road ahead had disappeared into grey.
An hour earlier, Balmorrow had still seemed perfectly manageable.
The landlord had refused to hire me a cart. He had also refused to lend me a horse or admit that any sensible road continued beyond the village.
“No, lass. No coach goes to Dunmore. No cart the day, either. Storm coming off the ben. Bide the night.”
The fire was warm, but Balmorrow was only a pause. Catherine had arranged a place for me at Dunmore, and I needed it to be real.
My head had ached since Perth. My throat hurt when I swallowed. I had decided both complaints came from coach dust and would disappear if ignored.
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