“Down to the ground.”
“Good.” He retrieved his golf bag — both men had slender quivers containing only three clubs each — and began striding away.
James fell into step beside him. “Can I take those clubs for you?”
“You want to caddy, too?” he asked, glancing around with a raised eyebrow. “No, sir. I carry my own clubs. The day I have to tip a caddy is the day I lay down my putter.”
They arrived at the third tee, and Iain smacked a dribbler down the center of the fairway. There was no height at all, but the ball bounced and carried a surprising distance. “Solid,” he said, and walked on.
“I’ll catch up with you on the green,” Howard called after him. To James, he said, “Now then, this question that could not wait — let’s have it.”
“It’s to do with my parents,” James began, suddenly uncertain how to proceed. He hesitated. “Sorry, I’m not sure I know how to ask this.”
“Never mind,” he replied. “It’s moot.”
“Pardon?”
“Doesn’t matter.” Howard gazed after his friend on the fairway. “I knew this day would come sooner or later. I’ve been expecting it ever since I heard your parents passed away.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“I have something for you. I’ve been keeping it in my study at home.”
“What is it?”
“I’m not at liberty to say. Come see me tomorrow.”
“I could come by this afternoon,” James offered. “Or, this evening if you prefer.”
“Ah, no,” he smiled, “that wouldn’t do at all. I never work on the Sabbath. It’s against my religion.” Howard bent down and placed his tee.
“I was taught the Sabbath was from sunset to sunset,” James countered.
“You are anxious.” He steadied the golf ball on the tee, assumed his stance, and took a practice swing. Glancing up at James, he said, “Are you a betting man?”
“Not really, no.”
“Pity,” replied the old solicitor. “I was going to make a wager with you: if I make it to the green in two, you can come by my office tonight. If I go three, you wait until tomorrow.”
“You’re on.”
He smiled again. “You remind me of your father.” He lined up his swing, and struck the ball with a satisfying thwack. The ball landed well down the fairway — a good shot, but it would take an even better one to reach the green.
They walked out onto the fairway. Iain had already taken his second shot. Howard alerted him with a shout — which James reckoned was exceedingly optimistic of him — and proceeded to line up his shot, still using the wooden driver. James kept quiet and let him concentrate. The old golfer centered himself over the ball, drew back the club, and swung.
Although he did not appear to have put much into the swing, the ball leapt up as if rocket-charged, arcing out in a high shallow curve — too shallow, James thought, to reach the green. But as the tiny white missile gained altitude, it seemed to grow wings. It sailed on the wind, dropping onto the edge of the green; it bounced once and rolled towards the pin.
James congratulated him on a fine shot, adding, “I guess I’ll see you this evening then.”
“I guess you will,” Howard remarked. James thanked him for his time, and wished him a good game. He stood and watched for a moment as James walked away, then shouted, “Say, you wouldn’t want to follow me around the rest of the course, would you? With your luck behind me, I bet I could beat Iain, for a change.”
“I’m not really a betting man,” James hollered back. “See you tonight.”
Returning to his vehicle, James continued along the river road. Glen Dee at Braemar is especially scenic. The river sweeps along in majestic silver swoops bounded by wide green meads beneath brooding dark hills planted in pine. He passed the Birkwood nature reserve below the dour Morrone of Morven, a black, bald-headed crag, and turned off the highway at the Linn of Corriemulzie, proceeding along the granite-chip road to Braemulzie, the farm of Sergeant-Major Owen Evans-Jones, Retired.
“My Jenny,” as her father liked to say, “is bi-racial. I’m Welsh, and her mother is a Scot.” James thought Jennifer had inherited the best of both, combining the earthly mystical romantic sensitivity of the Welsh and the fiery aggressive visionary ingenuity of the Scots. In Jenny both high passion and inspired practicality were united in the form of a distractingly lovely female. Dark haired and blue eyed, like her father, and smooth skinned and long limbed like her mother, Jennifer was in many ways less a human being than a force of nature.
In school, most of the boys had been afraid of her, and very few of those lads had ever bothered to change that youthful impression. James had seen grown men rendered speechless in her presence and women blanch with envy. When she entered a room, all eyes traveled naturally to her; when a question was asked, everyone turned to see what she would say. She did not join a conversation, she seized it. When you got Jenny’s attention, you got all of Jenny with it. Some people simply could not handle that.
“Even as a wee girl,” her mother once said, “Jenny never walked when she could run, and never ran when she could fly.”
There were a few cars in the wide, graveled yard when James pulled up. As with most Scottish farmhouses, one entered through the kitchen. Agnes’ kitchen was a large, rambling room with a big, sturdy table of chunky pine in the center, generations old. A dark Welsh dresser dominated one wall and deep cupboards another; a huge old gas-fired black iron stove that looked as if it had seen duty on a WWII troop ship kept the room cozily warm in winter and absolutely tropical the rest of the year. The room was steamy from pots on the boil, and the haunch in the oven filled the house with the delicious aroma of Agnes’ patented roast ham in a honey-mustard glaze.
No fewer than fifteen people were standing in the kitchen while Agnes, red-faced and frazzled, hovered about with a wooden spoon in one hand and a pot holder in the other, lifting lids and calling orders to her press-ganged assistants — two of Agnes’ young nieces. The rest of the onlookers were drifting in and out of the way, clutching glasses of wine and talking loudly.
“Hello there!” cried a voice as he stepped through the door. “Captain James, isn’t it?” He turned to see a thick-necked, stocky man with a bottle of sherry in one hand and three glasses in the other. “You look parched, boyo! Never fear, Gwyn is here.” He rattled the glasses.
“How are you, Gwyn?” asked James. Jenny’s Cardiff uncle fancied himself the life of any party he happened to join.
“Never better,” the ruddy-cheeked man declared. “Here, hold on to this!” He thrust a glass into James’ hand and proceeded to fill it to the brim with golden liquid from the bottle. “You’re keeping in fighting trim, I see. Young people!” He rolled his eyes dramatically. “There ought to be a law, I say.”
“There probably is, Gwyn,” James replied, and the Welshman laughed raucously. “Excuse me, will you?” he said, stepping away smartly. “If I want any dinner, I have to kiss the cook.”
“Kiss away!” he said, still laughing, and lurched off to refill a few sherry glasses.
Agnes was at the stove, lifting a pot lid, as James came up behind her. “It smells divine,” he remarked. “Anything I can do to help?”
“James!” The lid clattered back onto the pot as Jenny’s mother greeted him and bussed him lightly on the cheek. “Help? You already have, dear.” Nodding towards the overflowing sherry glass in his hand, she said, “Every drop you drink is one less for Gwyn, and that’s a help. Now, unless you want to see a grown woman throw a spitting fit, you’ll get out of my kitchen at once. There are too many people standing around in here as it is.”
“Right,” said James. “Call me if you change your mind.”
He moved into the living room, which, although not as crowded as the kitchen, contained as many people. There was a tight cluster of folk to one side of the fireplace where the Sergeant-Major was holding forth. “We would never have had the balls to
try it on in my day. Makes you wonder what —” He broke off when he saw who had joined the party. “James lad! Good to see you, son! Agnes said you had been called away on business.” Turning to the dark-haired, wind-chafed man beside him, “Kenneth, this is Captain James Stuart — caretaker over at Blair Morven.” He then explained, “Kenneth is Agnes’ brother from over by Balmoral.”
James greeted him, and the two shook hands. “We met a year or so ago,” Kenneth said, “at the Braemar games.”
“James is battling the Australians at the moment,” Owen informed Kenneth. He always explained things in military terms. “They’re trying to invade Blair Morven.”
“Oh, aye,” replied Kenneth shrewdly, as if he knew all about the canny stealth of what he called “our kangaroo kissing cousins.” Putting his hand to James’ shoulder he wished him a bonny victory. “Do ’em before they do you,” he advised somewhat blearily. “They’ll have the very turf from under your toes if you don’t.”
“Any luck in London?” asked Owen. He regarded James with interest. Kenneth, too, gazed up from his glass expectantly.
Obviously, James thought, everyone knew he’d been in London, and had guessed why he went. Any hope he’d had of putting it behind him for a few hours vanished. The thought of having to sift through it all for a suitable morsel to toss their way made his mouth go dry. “We’ll have to see,” James mumbled vaguely, and excused himself to go find Jennifer.
He turned and started from the fireplace just as Jenny entered the room from the opposite end. James smiled instinctively when he saw her, took two steps towards her, and stopped. She was with a tall man with short, dark hair whose head was bent towards her cheek while he whispered something in her ear. His arm was draped loosely around her shoulders.
The fellow smiled broadly, and Jenny laughed. Then she glanced up and saw James standing alone in the center of the room. She quickly excused herself and came to him. “What are you doing here?” she said, taking his arm and turning him around.
“Your mother invited me,” he said, and was not pleased with his suddenly defensive tone. “But I seem to be intruding.” He glanced over his shoulder at the young man. “Who’s the bloke?”
“A friend,” she said. “You should have let me know you were coming.”
“Obviously,” James agreed sourly. “Look, I’ll leave if you want me to. Maybe that would be better.”
“Nonsense, you’re here now. Stay.”
“Thanks,” he muttered. “Your welcome is overwhelming.”
“What did you expect?” she snapped. “I don’t hear from you for weeks, and then all of a sudden I’m supposed to be ecstatic that you decide to show up for Gran’s birthday dinner. Anyway, I thought you were in London.”
The young gentleman joined them just then. “Why don’t you introduce me, Jen?” he said. James heard the possessive note in the fellow’s voice and felt an instant loathing possess him.
“Of course,” she said. “Charles, I’d like you to meet James, an old friend.”
“Delighted,” said Charles. “What do you find to do around here, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Oh, this and that. I try to keep busy,” replied James. “How about you?”
“Chartered surveyor, for my sins,” the fellow replied. “I work for a firm in Aberdeen. I pop over now and again for a little shooting in season. I’m becoming a real sportsman.”
“Terrific,” said James. “Well, no doubt we’ll bump into one another again sometime.”
“No doubt. Come along, darling,” Charles said, steering Jenny away. “Let’s go find the birthday girl.”
James, pierced by pangs of guilt and regret, watched them weave through the press of family. He wanted nothing more than to slink away unnoticed, but when he reached the kitchen door, Agnes handed him a platter of ham and directed him to carry it to the table. “Be a dear, James,” she said, “and help call people to their places.”
Consequently, he endured an interminable meal, made indigestible by the overweening Charles, whose evident designs on Jennifer James found both infuriating and repugnant. It was early evening by the time James found a chance to sneak away. He ducked out the door, paused, and looked thankfully up at the clear night sky. Free at last.
He started across the yard, the cold gravel crunching underfoot. The sound made him feel lonely. He would have gladly given everything he owned, ten times over, just to go back inside and snuggle up to Jenny on the couch, alone, in front of the fire. Instead, he walked to his vehicle, jammed the key in the ignition, threw the gearshift in reverse, and almost collided with someone darting around the back of the vehicle.
Thirteen
“You sure you’re okay to drive?” said Jenny, coming around the side of the Land Rover.
“Sorry, I didn’t hear you come out.” James opened the door partway, and she stepped into the gap.
“You could stay and have a cup of coffee.”
“I’m fine. You’d best get back in there or Charles will come looking for you.”
She frowned prettily. “You look so unhappy, James. You hardly said two words at dinner. Anything wrong?”
“No, I’m fine. Give your mother and father my apologies for sneaking off like this.”
“Don’t worry,” she snapped. “You were hardly here.”
She turned on her heel and swept back into the house. James watched her go, wanting to call her back but lacking the will to do so. He’d have to explain, and he was not ready for that yet.
He headed back to town. The road was deserted, and the town as well. He drove to Gilpin’s house, parked out front, hurried up the walk, and rang the doorbell. After a moment, he heard someone rattle the chain on the other side, and a bolt slid back.
“I’d just about given up on you,” Howard informed him, “but now that you’re here, you might as well come in.”
“I know it’s an imposition,” James replied, stepping over the threshold, “but I really do thank you for seeing me, and I promise I won’t keep you.”
“Think nothing of it,” Howard said. He padded towards a low cabinet on which stood a whisky decanter and an assortment of glasses. “Drink?”
“Thanks, no,” James said, following him into the room. The house smelled of cooked cabbage.
Howard poured two glasses from the decanter anyway, and handed one to his visitor. “Just in case,” he said. Raising his glass, he wished James good health. They drank, and Howard turned to the white-painted mantel over a gas log fireplace. “You’ll be wanting this,” he said, and retrieved a square brown packet and handed it across to James. “Maybe you won’t think so after you see what’s inside.”
It was an old-fashioned envelope, handmade out of stiff brown kraft paper — the kind with a big flap that was closed by winding red string around two cardboard disks. In this instance, however, the flap had also been sealed in two places with red sealing wax, which was intact. James turned the envelope over. Written in faded ink were these words:
FOR JAMES A. STUART
TO BE DELIVERED UPON REQUEST
How did Gilpin come to have such a thing? James stared at the envelope and his mind went blank. He was incapable of surprise now — only wonder.
“Are you going to stand there gawping all night? Go on,” Howard urged, “open it.”
“I’ve inconvenienced you long enough,” James told him. “It can wait until I get home.”
“Nonsense. Open it now — you might have questions.”
Sliding his finger under the flap, James carefully broke the seals — first one side, then the other — and unwound the red string. Pulling back the flap, he opened the envelope and peered inside.
“Come over here where the light’s better,” Howard said, indicating a small desk in the corner of the room. The lamp was switched on. “Sit down there.”
James sat as directed, and shook the contents onto the blotter. Several pieces of paper slid out. The first was a short note, written by the same hand that h
ad addressed the outside. It read:
James, you should find everything you need here to claim your bequest and establish your legacy. Please know that it was never our intention to deceive or deprive you in any way, only to protect you. With much love,
Always and forever,
Mum and Dad
Upon unfolding the first piece of paper, James saw a shiny photocopy on slick, brittle paper which had been embossed with a notary’s seal — a birth certificate. It was, in fact, his own birth certificate.
His heart beat faster as he looked at the names, knowing already what he would see. Typed in the blank for FATHER was the name Robert Arthur Moray, Marquess of Morven; in the space for MOTHER was written Elizabeth Anne Moray, née Grant. His name was there, too, of course — and yet it was not his name, for instead of James Arthur Stuart, the name he’d used all his life, it was James Arthur Moray.
A sudden queasy emptiness spread through his stomach — as if the floor had been yanked from beneath his feet, sending him spinning into free fall. My God, he thought, his brain squirming, it’s true! It’s all true.
Pushing the thought firmly aside, he took up the next piece of paper. It was the marriage certificate of Robert Arthur Moray, Marquess of Morven, and Elizabeth Anne Grant. The date on the bottom was a little more than a year before James was born.
He swallowed hard, and lay the paper aside. He could feel Howard watching, but the old lawyer stood quietly aside and said nothing as James reached for the last document, which was, as he already suspected, the marriage certificate of John James Stuart and Elizabeth Anne Moray née Grant — the original from which the copy he had seen in Embries’ office had been taken. This one, however, had a paper-clipped attachment.
Peeling back the certificate, James saw a tidy, legal-looking form. The heading in block capitals at the top identified it simply as a Deed Poll, and a subhead read: Application for Change of Name. Skipping over the body of the document, James’ eye fell on the typed-in blanks where the name James Arthur Moray had been changed to James Arthur Stuart. The deed was dated the same day as the marriage certificate and, in addition to the official registrar’s signature, likewise carried a notary’s seal.
Avalon: The Return of King Arthur Page 13