Dearest sister,

I'd best get it out of the way fast: I am having a shit of a time in the Highlands.

Don't get me wrong, it's beautiful out here. Glencarrion is a beautiful castle, and I believe you would love it if you were to visit. It is made out of stone, and from the outside —if you don't look too closely— it seems to bleed right into the stony walls amidst which it is hidden. It blends so naturally with its surroundings that you would think the stone castle is as naturally grown out of the ground as the grassy knolls and climbing cliffs.

But I digress.

It's not the scenery that bothers me, but the company. Do you remember Lord and Lady McLaggen? I'm sure you do, because every time they've come over for a visit, we've found them to be among our nicest party guests. Do you remember their son, Cormac? I'm sure if you do, it is not because of the same reason we remember his parents, because he is an absolute arse.

Unfortunately, the brunt of my time at Glencarrion has been spent in his company. Mother told me she'd shipped me up here so I could learn a bit about estate running, which seems perfectly fine, and so I didn't have a problem with it because I thought I'd spend most of the time with Lord Angus. Well, I have, but it seems his son is also currently learning how to lead an estate as well, because he has tagged along every day. On the topic of estate running, I do have to say that it is not as boring as my sessions with father made it seem. It's a hard job, but being around Lord Angus, whom it is clear loves the land and loves being charged with caring for it, makes it clear that it is a job that takes passion (and I believe I will be more understanding of father in the future, understanding the dedication it takes). Cormac, however, exhibits none of it.

I can tell he is excited at inheriting the estate, because every time Angus reminds him that he is to be "Lord McLaggen" or the "Earl of Glencarrion" in the future, his eyes light up. But for the rest of the sessions he is a disturbance, idling behind us, walking off instead of paying attention. It's none of my business, but I can see it bothers his father, so I try to pay double the attention. You would be proud of me, dear sister. I seem to be becoming at least half as good a pupil as you are!

But I digress, yet again. I'm not writing to you to tell you all about how I'm learning to be a proper heir to the Earl of Rosebury, or whatever that is about. I'm writing to warn you. I would telephone, but Lord Angus is extremely particular about his telephone, and I would not want mother to pick up the receiver on the other end. Besides, I do not think I would have the privacy that paper affords me, the privacy I need to share this with you. Cormac might be listening. And that, which you will soon see why, is what I want to avoid at all costs.

It started on the second day, when I went out riding with Cormac as a welcome courtesy. He was obviously less than thrilled to take me on. He is almost six years older than I am, and I presume he must see me as an unruly child he has been stacked with caring for. He certainly made me feel that way throughout that whole trip: he kept correcting the position of my feet in the stirrups and my grip on the reins— never mind that I rode before I walked, and that I could see how he was squeezing that poor horse for dear life with his thighs! Anyway, if anything mother taught me, it is to be polite, and so I just took it on the chin and tried not to pay too much attention to him. At one point he hurried his horse forward, away from the path and toward a rockface that ended in a cliff toward the sea. I followed after him, for I'm not yet knowledgeable enough about the Highlands so as to do without a guide.

His horse stopped just a few feet from the cliff's edge, and I made my own stop right beside him. He seemed not to notice my arrival. My horse sidled closer to his, likely seeking comfort in numbers with the threatening drop into the sea ahead. Only when I was nudged closer did Cormac speak to me.

"So, Orlando," he said, and that was the first time he actually called me by my name and not just 'the Granger boy', "any prospects yet?"

This was the first conversation we had ever had, and I did not expect it to be about marriage, so naturally I just said, "Excuse me?"

"Ladies? Anyone swooning over you?" He looked at me as he said it, as if measuring me up, looking me up and down with a certain air of superiority that seemed to say 'I'm better than you, and still deigning to look down at you'. Not pleasant.

So of course I said no, just to shake that awful uncomfortable stare off of me, and he shrugged and looked ahead. "Shame," he said, but he said it as if I should be the one ashamed of not having any 'prospects'.

You know me, and naturally, I got defensive. "I'm barely eighteen," I told him. "I'm not exactly on the prowl for a wife just yet."

"Oh, of course," he said, but again there was judgment in his voice. "Eighteen is too young, isn't it? I don't think my mother will agree, though, so best brace yourself for that."

I was going to ask what he meant by that, but he spun his horse and raced down the hill— and I, of course, followed. He didn't break his pace until we were back at Glencarrion, and I didn't have an opportunity to press him throughout the rest of the evening.

Much to my dismay, however, it wasn't long until I found out what he meant.

Because every night since that second night, dear sister, I have spent swept up in useless, horrid balls thrown by the McLaggens. It's not that the balls themselves are horrid —Aileen is a wonderful hostess, and of course the food and music is quite splendid—, but it's that I seem to have a target on my back at each and every one of these things. Scarcely an instant goes by that I don't see either Lord or Lady McLaggen walking up to me with a new lady of some sort on hand that they want to introduce me to. "Ah, Orlando, have you met Ms. So-and-So?"

It always goes like that, and she's always much older than I am, and it's always disgusting because nobody in this castle seems to recall that I am practically still a child. From how these ladies throw themselves at me, you'd think I'd have amassed more life experience than simply turning 18 and inheriting a big house. But to them that might be all that matters. I feel I am surrounded by vultures at all times, and the last few nights I've taken to hiding wherever I may to escape them however I can. It's usually to no avail, however. They always find me. They sniff me out.

Cormac, however, is entirely at home in the world of female attention. He basks in it, almost glowing, and seems to relish it with the air of someone who feels he's entitled to it. Like it's a given that women would be draping themselves over him. It is only made worse by how horribly he treats them— as if they were disposable, barely deserving of his attention or regard. And somehow that makes them all the more desperate to gain it, and the whole cycle just becomes amplified. He looks at me when he sees me uncomfortable in the company of other women, and he smirks, and I know. I know what he meant that day on that horse.

Of course this voluble carousel is a collateral intention of mother's— of that I have no doubt. And it is not the only one.

Because now I get to the purpose of this letter. Today, during breakfast, scantly a few hours ago, they asked me about the women.

"Well, young Master Granger," it was Lord Angus who started it over a plateful of toast. "What have you made of the parties?"

I knew it wasn't really the entertainment he was asking about. "The parties have been just fine, Lord McLaggen, thank you very much," I told him (again with mother— politeness above all!).

"And the guests?"

There it was! "Thank you very much for all the introductions, my lord, my lady, but I don't believe I shall leave Glencarrion a man in love."

"Oh, that is rather a shame," Lady Aileen told me. I remember it clearly, how she was dabbing at the corners of her mouth with the napkin. Like a character in a play. It was so mechanical. "If only Cormac had a sister..."

A chill ran through me. It was something in the way she pronounced the last word. And I knew I was right, because Lord McLaggen piped up again: "Speaking of sisters, Orlando, you have an older one, don't you?"

Lady McLaggen didn't even give me a chance to answer. "He does, Amelia told me. She's about our Cormac's age."

Cormac, who had been sitting disinterestedly at the table up to that point, merely raised his gaze from his toast to look at his parents.

"I suppose we'll have to pay the Grangers a visit soon, then," Lord Angus said contentedly, finishing his breakfast and rising from the table. His wife mimicked him, and she gave me a weak smile as she exited the dining room.

It was only Cormac and me at the table then. He took his sweet time bringing his food from plate to mouth with a fork, as if he wanted me to hang on to his every movement. When he was done, he pushed his plate away and dragged the napkin across his mouth. "What's your sister like, Orlando?" he said as he pushed back his chair and stood up. "Beautiful, I imagine?"

He didn't wait for me to respond. He followed his parents and left me sitting in shock at the table, where, silently, my resolve to write this letter was solidifying. Because there it was: the entire purpose for this visit, which I now understand was not really about teaching me how to run an estate, but was more of a diplomatic mission to groom me into the idea of our family becoming a lot closer to the McLaggens'.

So this is why I write, dearest sister, with only a few hours to go before another one of these ghastly soirées. I must finish this letter and ask one of the servants to post it before tonight. This letter must reach you fast, because I am returning in a few days, and I am beginning to have the suspicion that the McLaggens will be coming with me. I should hate to think that you aren't forewarned. Cormac has not made a positive impression on me, but if he's coming to Rosebury House, I think both you and I can guess exactly what his intentions might be. You should be prepared.

I can only close this letter now and pray for two things— that it gets to you before I do, and that if it does, that it gets to you and does not fall into mother's hands.

Meanwhile, I shall count down the days until I am back at Rosebury. Being around Cormac makes me want to put a shot through my head, and it is all the harder without you here to bear it with me. At least if he comes to Rosebury we'll have each other, won't we?

With love,

Your brother Orlando