The Exchanged Heir

Chapter 31: A Choice in the Wind

Chapter 31: A Choice in the Wind

The breakfast table at Mrs. MacKinnon’s boarding-house was a battlefield of silence.

The scrape of butter-knives across toast, the polite clink of cup to saucer, the rustle of *The Scotsman* as Mrs. MacKinnon turned its pages—every ordinary sound rasped across Isabella’s nerves like a whetstone. She stared at the scrambled eggs on her plate, yellow curds that turned her stomach.

Across from her sat Lucy, sipping tea with impeccable poise—the poise expected of a young lady who had been invited to a prince’s hunting party. But Isabella saw the white knuckles on the cup, the small convulsive swallow.

“Fine day,” ventured John Fraser, the medical student, “for a walk.”

No one answered. The accountant spooned oatmeal; the two widows murmured parish gossip; the pale woman—Agnes—pleated her napkin as always.

“We’re going out,” Isabella said abruptly, voice harsher than she meant. “We have business.”

Mrs. MacKinnon lowered her paper an inch. “Door locked at ten, mind.”

“We’ll mind.”

Outside, the chill Edinburgh morning—sharp air, cart-wheels rattling over cobbles—loosened the vise round Isabella’s ribs a fraction, yet the thorn beneath her stays still pricked with every breath.

“We must speak of the invitation,” Lucy murmured as they turned into Princes Street Gardens. The gardens lay between the orderly Georgian New Town and the jagged medieval skyline of the Old, sunlight gilding the volcanic crag of the Castle. Even that beauty felt ominous.

“You cannot go,” Isabella blurted, surprising herself. “It’s too dangerous. You know that.”

Lucy stopped. “And I know refusing a prince can be deadlier. If he takes offence—if he deems us suspicious—”

“Then we leave Edinburgh. North to Inverness, or across the sea to Ireland.”

“And run forever? Hide in every strange face?” Lucy seized Isabella’s arm, grip fierce. “I’m tired of fleeing, Isabella. Perhaps this is a chance to win a powerful friend.”

“A man who wants you, Lucy! A man who invites you—*alone*—to a stag hunt! That is courtship, not friendship.”

“So be it.” Lucy’s voice cracked upward; a passing nurse glanced over. She lowered it, but the fire remained. “If his interest buys us protection, I’ll wield it. I’ve lain awake weighing every farthing we have left. Mrs. MacKinnon watches us like hawks. We cannot drift.”

The practicality was ice-water. Isabella’s head spun. “You would offer yourself?”

Lucy’s eyes glittered—tears quickly blinked away. “Never *that*. But I can keep hope alive without yielding. I can buy time.”

A game of brinksmanship: a penniless girl teasing a practised prince. History was littered with the shards of women who had lost.

“We’ll see Dr. Graham,” Isabella said suddenly. “Today. Hear his counsel.”

Lucy hesitated. “Trust another stranger?”

“Have we a choice?”

*

Dr. Alexander Graham’s consulting-rooms occupied the third floor of a quiet Georgian terrace in the New Town. A brass plate read simply: *Alexander Graham, MD, FRCP.*

Inside, a neat, middle-aged woman—Miss E. Dawson—looked up from a ledger. “Appointment?”

“No,” Isabella said, “but the doctor gave us his card. He said—if we needed counsel…”

Miss Dawson studied them, then nodded. “Sit. He’s with a patient.”

Twenty minutes of hushed ticking, anatomical charts, the faint smell of carbolic and old paper—another world, orderly, rational, alien.

At last the inner door opened; a worried gentleman departed. They were ushered in.

Dr. Graham rose from behind a mahogany desk, polishing wire-rim spectacles. “Miss Eliots. I’m glad you came. Sit.”

Isabella plunged. “We’ve received an invitation—from Prince Edward. To Miss Lucy. A hunting party at his Perthshire estate. Three days. She alone.”

The doctor’s mild expression did not alter, but his eyes narrowed. “Unusual,” he murmured. “Tell me your thoughts—each of you.”

Words tumbled, overlapping: dread, opportunity, refusal, acceptance, money running out, fear of separation, fear of discovery.

He listened without interruption, fingertips steepled. When they finished he gazed out at the rooftops. “You share the dilemma of many who love outside society’s lines. Let us dissect it.”

He turned back. “The Prince is enlightened—patron of sciences, friend to artists—yet accustomed to gaining what he seeks. An exclusive invitation suggests… particular interest. But it may also be trial: rumours of two women travelling unchaperoned reach even palace corridors. He wishes to inspect.”

“Do we accept?” Lucy asked.

“I cannot decide. I can arm you.” He drew paper and pen. “If Miss Lucy goes, three rules. First: a female companion—respectable widow, sharing her room. Without one, decline outright.”

Hope flickered. “We could claim—”

“I know such a woman—Mrs. Cameron, minister’s widow, discreet, in need of funds. Second: boundaries declared early. You are guest, not prey. Third: communication. Coded word by daily postcard.”

He outlined the cipher:

*Weather fine, hope you see such beauty too*—all well.

*Miss home comforts*—unease.

*Food disagrees*—danger, extract at once.

“Mrs. Cameron will accompany both journeys,” he concluded. “The Prince may grumble, but cannot refuse without scandal.”

Lucy leaned forward. “You aid us often?”

“My sister,” he said quietly. “Loved ‘unsuitably.’ Our family… failed her. She died abroad, alone. I was too young to help. Now I help where I can.” He stood. “Consider. Return tomorrow if you decide; I’ll engage Mrs. Cameron. If you refuse, I’ll seek other paths—posts in remote districts, perhaps.”

*

Outside, noon sun glittered on chill stone. They walked George Street, voices low.

“He means it,” Lucy said.

“I believe so. And I believe… you should go.” Isabella halted. “I’m terrified. But flight forever is also terror. If this is chance—however slender—we must seize it. On his terms: chaperone, boundaries, code.”

Tears slid down Lucy’s cheeks, but she smiled. “I love you. And love sometimes means… letting go.”

They sought the dim hush of St Giles’, slipping into a back pew. Coloured light pooled at their feet.

“Three days,” Lucy whispered.

“Every hour counted,” Isabella answered.

*

Night in the narrow attic room became a strange ritual: folding dresses, polishing boots, rehearsing polite deflections.

“If he tries to kiss you?” Isabella asked, then wished she hadn’t.

Lucy laid the shirt aside. “I turn away, claim headache, recall duty. My heart—” she pressed her palm to Isabella’s breastbone—“stays here.”

They climbed into the single bed, no passion, only twined limbs and urgent whispers.

“Tell me a future,” Lucy murmured.

“A cottage—sea or field. A garden for you. I’ll teach children, or write. Evenings by the fire, you laughing at my blunders…” Her voice faded. Lucy’s breathing steadied into sleep; Isabella stared at ceiling-shadows, rehearsing catastrophes.

*

Next morning they returned. Miss Dawson admitted them without a word.

“We accept,” Isabella said.

The doctor nodded as if he had known. “Mrs. Cameron will call this afternoon. Here is the bookshop address for postcards.” He pressed a card into Isabella’s hand. “Coaches leave at dawn. Be ready.”

*

Afternoon: Mrs. Cameron—thin, sharp-eyed, lips pursed—inspected Lucy’s wardrobe, questioned etiquette, demanded itineraries. She gave no sign of curiosity about the two women who flinched at parting.

“I’ll preserve the young lady’s honour to my last breath,” she told Isabella, hand on Bible-black reticule.

*

Evening. A brougham bearing the Prince’s crest drew up. Lamps flickered in drizzle; cobbles gleamed.

Lucy adjusted her travelling cloak. For an instant, lamplight caught the child in her face; then the heir’s mask slid back.

“Daily postcards,” Isabella whispered, throat raw.

“Daily.” Lucy glanced at the porter and Mrs. Cameron, then brushed Isabella’s cheek with lips barely there. “For luck.”

She climbed in; the door shut; the carriage lurched into the Edinburgh dusk.

Isabella stood until hoof-beats faded. Cold seeped through her soles. She turned indoors.

The small attic room was suddenly cavernous. Lucy’s bed smooth, comb aligned, a single stocking peeking from behind the trunk— relics sharp as glass.

She sat at the window, watching lights prick on across the dark city, counting hours.

*

Day One: no card—travel too rough.

Day Two: a view of Castle Rock—*hope you see such beauty too*. Isabella exhaled shakily.

Day Three: none.

Morning passed; afternoon crawled; evening settled like wet wool. Nothing.

At eight, a thunderous knock. The doctor’s groom thrust an envelope:

Miss Eliot—

Word from Perthshire. Accident among guests. Details scarce. Mrs. Cameron wires “food disagrees”. Carriage leaves at dawn for Aberfeldy. Prepare yourself.

A. G.

The world tilted. Isabella gripped the jamb, then straightened.

The separation was over; the trial beginning.

This time she would not wait in the shadows.