Sabrina couldn't imagine where they all had been put for sleeping accommodations, and remarked on it to her aunt. Summers Glade was large, but fifty bedrooms, it certainly didn't have, let alone two hundred. Having been to at least one such country gathering in her youth, Hilary chuckled and said, "Just be glad we weren't asked to put up some of them, as our other neighbors were."
There were several neighbors Sabrina recognized who didn't have daughters, who she realized now had been invited just so they could be asked to open their own homes. The inn in Oxbow must also be filled to the brim for once.
"Besides," Hilary added, "it's only the most important guests that would be given rooms of their own. I remember sharing a room once with six other girls, and Father, who accompanied Alice and me to that affair, didn't fare as well, was stuffed in with nine other gentlemen. But when you throw parties of this sort that go on for weeks, there really is no other choice."
"You came."
Sabrina turned around to find Duncan had come up behind her. She had been smiling at her aunt and so was still smiling as she greeted him.
"Did you think I wouldn't?"
"After the ooutcome o' that meeting you arranged, aye, I did have m'doubts" "What meeting would that be, m'dear?" Hilary asked beside her.
Sabrina managed not to blush, saying evasively, "Nothing of importance, Aunt Hilary. And may I introduce you to Duncan MacTavish?"
Duncan cut a bow for her aunt, very gentlemanly. Actually, he did look quite the gentleman tonight, formally dressed in a midnight-blue tailed coat that brought out the deep blue of his eyes.
"You don't look anything like your grandfather, young man," Hilary told him, adding in her blunt way, "I consider that quite fortunate—for you."
He laughed, but another party was heard from. "Do you indeed? And who might you be, madame?"
Hilary raised a brow at the old gentleman who'd joined them. "Don't recognize me, Neville? I'm not surprised, it's been more'n twenty years."
"Is that you, Hilary Lambert?"
"Indeed."
"You've put on a bit of weight, gel," he humphed.
"And you're looking like you belong in a sickbed. So what else is new?"
Sabrina put a hand to her mouth, wishing she were about ten feet away so she could laugh in peace. Duncan, glancing between the two older people who were glowering at each other, said, "Then you do know the lass?" "What lass?" Neville demanded grouchily. "You're not calling this old bird here a lass, are you?" "I think he means my niece here, you old coot," Hilary supplied helpfully.
That brought Neville's eyes to Sabrina, who was at the moment no longer in need of laughing. Hilary's testiness could be amusing, but not when she resorted to actually insulting their host.
He hadn't seemed to notice that, however, was now staring at Sabrina with avid curiosity, and finally said, "Well, damn me, they really are lilac, aren't they? Thought the boy was exaggerating." Then, as it suddenly dawned on him, "Good God, you're a Lambert?"
Sabrina, of course, knew exactly why he was suddenly so shocked. Unfortunately, like her aunts, she sometimes was more blunt than she ought to be, and replied, "Last time I noticed, yes, and still alive, too."
He had the grace to blush. She blushed for her own reason, that she'd been less than diplomatic in her response. Duncan, seeing the blushes, frowned, said, "Excuse us," and dragged Sabrina off into the next room.
The next room was just as crowded, of course, but since it was the ballroom, which was easily the size of three large rooms combined, and had been set up with a buffet for dinner rather than for dancing tonight, he was able to find a spot off in one corner where they wouldn't be overheard. And she knew exactly why he wanted a bit of privacy. The poor man was quite confused, and understandably so.
"Would you be explaining tae me what that was all aboot?" he demanded as soon as he stopped and let go of her arm.
She winced, deliberately. "Must I?"
For answer he just stared at her, and stared, until her next wince was genuine. "Very well." She sighed. "But this story would be much more interesting if you heard it from someone else. Are you sure you wouldn't rather have your grandfather tell it? I'm sure he could exaggerate for effect. Most people do."
"Is that a wee bit o' bitterness I'm hearing, lass?" he asked.
She blinked at him, then smiled. "You've found out my secret."
"I'm still waiting tae hear it."
"But you just did."
He tapped a palm to the side of his head a couple of times, saying, "Then something mun be wrong wi' my hearing, lass, 'cause I've heard nae secret yet."
"Now, how could you forget so soon, when you only just said you heard my bitterness? That's my secret. The rest," she said, waving a dismissive hand, "is public knowledge, so hardly a secret."
He was staring again, quite pointedly, letting her know that her silliness wasn't going to lighten his mood this time. But just in case she wasn't sure of that, he said, "Should I remind you that I've no' been part o' this public for verra long, and any knowledge taken for granted in this area would be unknown tae me?"
"Let me give you the brief version then, since it's not really all that interesting. Lamberts, those closely related to me, that is, are known to have died not by natural means, but by their own incentive, as it were. This has given rise to the general conclusion that 'bad blood' runs in my family, and that surely I will follow this same path. Honestly, some people just can't understand why I'm still alive. Some even swear that I'm not, that surely I must be—"
"A ghost?"
"Ah, you remember my mentioning that?"
He nodded, replying, "I'm thinking I'd rather hear the long version, the one that explains why you're a wee bit bitter o'er this."
"I'm not really bitter, Duncan. Truly, sometimes I find this quite amusing, like when poor corpulent Lady Marlow shrieked to the rafters before she fainted upon seeing me. Now, everyone present might not have heard her shriek, but they surely felt it when she hit the floor. One fellow even complimented our host on having such good architecture that the floor survived that fall—the lady really was very wide of girth. Oh, go ahead, I know you want to smile."
He chuckled instead, then cut it off and tried to look serious again, he really did, but he couldn't quite manage it. She could have got him really laughing at that point with not much more effort, to where he just might forget about wanting to hear the "long version," but he'd remember eventually, and she'd just as soon get it over with, so she could enjoy her one night at Summers Glade.
"It was my great-grandfather Richard who started the scandal by killing himself. No one really knows why he did, but it was pretty obvious that he did, and his wife, unable to bear up under the tragedy of it, did the same not long after. Their only child, my grandmother, was already married at the time and had two daughters herself, the two aunts I live with. She bore up well under this double tragedy, for a while anyway. But after she gave birth once more, to my father, she, ahh, fell down some stairs. My aunts insist this was an accident, but no one else was inclined to think so, thus the 'bad blood' theory arose and took further root when my own parents died together."
"I'm sorry aboot your parents."
"So am I. I regret mostly not even knowing them, since I was too young at the time to remember them. But they didn't kill themselves. It was tainted food. Even the doctor who arrived too late to help them said so. Of course, it makes for a much better story, that they took poison together. And now, even though my aunts, from the same tree, are quite hale and hardy, with no inclination to go walking off any cliffs, I'm next in line to take the tragic plunge."
"I canna think o' anyone less likely tae take anything so seriously that they'd come e'en close tae contemplating ending it all."