Mr. Warwick—nay, MacTavish—said stiffly later that morning, as he stood in the foyer addressing Bea and her aunt, looking somewhat like a beleaguered giant. “Would you care to accompany me into the village while I do so, Miss Cavendish?” Bea couldn’t imagine why she would, but if he thought this a necessary part of the charade they must play, she ought to go along with it. She couldn’t believe her child-loving aunt would return the children to their drunken father, but she saw no sense in taking chances either. She just wished she knew what name to call her “suitor.” “You must call me Bea,” she said politely, aware that her aunt was listening. She wasn’t entirely certain how one went about a courtship, but informality seemed appropriate. Mr. MacTavish’s stern face cracked a smile. “And you must call me Mac. It’s a fine day for a brief jaunt.” Perhaps she ought to simply enjoy the courtship experience, knowing that nothing would come of it. She needn’t fret if her hair strayed or her gown became dusty or if she said the wrong thing.
