Lowland Romance Collection - Books 4-6

Book summary

Dive into the passionate realms of Scottish romance with books 4-6 of Helen Susan Swift's 'Lowland Romance' series. This collection takes readers through heartrending choices and unexpected turns of fate against the backdrop of Scotland's evocative landscapes. Swift masterfully captures the essence of historical Scotland and the deep-seated emotions of its people. In this collection, love, loyalty, and heartache intertwine, promising readers a whirlwind of emotions and memorable moments.

Excerpt from Lowland Romance Collection - Books 4-6

Now that I was without a fiancé, I faced a solitary future, unless I managed to snare a marriageable man. I was only 22, still relatively young, and although Father spoke about his perilous financial position, he remained a man of some standing. As his only relative, I stood to inherit his property when he died. Looking out of my window at the Pentland Ridge, I planned my next move, for I had no intention of allowing fate to decide my life for me. I would organise, scheme and manoeuvre myself into the most advantageous position for a favourable marriage with the best possible man I could find.

Unfortunately, the choice was limited, and some men might view me with wariness now I had removed myself from the trap of engagement to an unsuitable suitor.

Although the prospect was nerve-racking, I was excited at hunting for a husband, being the hunter rather than the quarry, the hound rather than the fox. That analogy was rather fitting, I thought, as my first move would be at the next meet of the Midlothian Hunt.

***

“You look happy,” Mother said when I came down to breakfast.

“I am,” I said.

Father folded back the upper half of his newspaper. “Why is that, pray? I’d have thought you were unhappy, having lost your betrothed.”

“He was not worth keeping,” I said. “He was a selfish blackguard.”

Father raised his eyebrows. “Strong words for a man you were engaged to for years. He might be a blackguard, Robyn, but he was a blackguard who could have kept you in comfortable circumstances. There are few such men around.”

“I can think of a couple,” I said.

“Perhaps,” Mother said, “but a dear ship lies long in the harbour.”

“What on earth does that mean?”

“It means that if you are very exacting in your choice of husband, dear Robyn, you may have a long wait, or perhaps a fruitless one.”

“I do not intend to wait at all, Mother,” I said. “As men hunt for foxes, I intend to hunt for a man.”

“Oh?” Father lowered his newspaper, grimly humorous. “Hunters have a pack of hounds to help. How do you intend to find your quarry?”

“I may use these same hounds.” I was aware of Mother’s gaze on me as I smiled to Father.

“What do you want, Robyn?” Father asked at once. “I know that smile.”

“I want to ride in the Midlothian Hunt,” I said.

Father folded his paper, placed it beside him, sighed, and looked at me. “Why?” He asked. “You’ve taken no interest in hunting before.”

“It could be entertaining,” I said.

“You may not like the hunting set.” Father understood at once.

“I may not,” I agreed.

“Who will be there to entertain you?” Mother knew me well.

“Amy Peacock,” I said, truthfully.

“And for whom are you hunting?” Mother asked.

“Derek Pringle.”

“As far as I am aware, there is no need for an invitation or a formal introduction,” Father said. “You only need a horse, hard-wearing clothing, and strong nerves for the chase.”

“May I borrow Maida, Father?” I asked. Maida was the favourite of Father’s three horses, a strong bay stallion with an iron jaw and the heart of a lion. Father had named him after the dog of Walter Scott, a writer he admired.

“You may,” Father said. “Do you have the stomach for the kill? I believe it can be a bloody experience.”

I had thought of that. “I might not stay for the kill,” I said.

Father nodded. “That might be best. Don’t take any unnecessary risks,” he said. “I don’t want you to break your leg or your proud neck.”

“Nor do I,” I agreed.

Father lifted his newspaper again. “You may find Derek Pringle less amiable than Andrew Dewar if you succeed in catching him.”

“I may,” I said. “But I have few choices.”

So that was why I was awake well before dawn on the following Friday, taking a cup of coffee to break my fast and trying to control my desire to chatter on about nothing in particular.

“You do like to talk in the mornings, don’t you?” Mother had left her bed to ensure I was safe. She stood with a coat thrown over her night-dress, a loose turban on her head and her feet bare on the floor. Honestly, if men saw women in the morning before they prettied up, they might lose many of the foolish romantic notions they have of us. Marriage, of course, dispels all illusions. Mother always termed dressed- up women as “Sunday wives”, women who looked their best to catch a man. Amy was one such. So far, I had not been so inclined, but I knew I might have to follow that path if I failed to interest Mr Pringle.

“If words formed a net, you could catch a whole boatload of men,” Mother said, “and throw those you did not like back into the sea.”

I smiled, swallowing coffee as I listened to the wind hammering for admittance at the door.

“Save some of your energy for the hunting,” Mother said, smiling with sleep-heavy eyes. “Is it only Mr Pringle that you are after?”

“He is my hope.” I put the empty cup down.

“Aye, as I said, he has a good seat so you’ll have to ride hard to keep up with him.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Take care,” Mother put her hand on my arm. “I’d prefer a daughter with no husband to a daughter with a broken neck.”

“I’ll take care.”

I knew little about fox-hunting save the maxim that the best horse for hunting had the head of a duchess and the bottom of a cook. With that slender advice in mind, I examined Maida before mounting. He had long, intelligent ears, which was always a good thing in a horse, and wide-open eyes, which I thought beneficial. Strong-boned, with powerful hindquarters, he looked like a hunter to me. I knew that Maida was a spirited horse, and at 16 hands was a little large for comfort, but I had ridden him on a few occasions, so he knew my touch. He seemed happy to be out of the stable, whinnying at the bite of the wind as I led him on to the path. Mother helped me into the side-saddle, patting my thigh as I sat there.

“I’d be happier if somebody was going with you.”

“I’m 22,” I said. “I can cope.”

“Ride safely,” Mother said and slapped Maida’s rump. Although I did not look back, I knew she was watching me.

Using a long rein, I walked Maida out of the grounds and downhill, with the shrewd breeze of autumn biting at my ears and the smell of damp earth a pleasant introduction to the day.