The Winter Sea

by Susanna Kearsley

  And at the hearth, a woman, middle-aged, stood with her broad back turned to both of them, and stirred at something in an open kettle. That something, to Sophia, smelled like barley, and her stomach gave a hungry twist, and so she said, ‘Good morning.’

  The humming stopped. The young man’s chair thumped down, and all three heads came round in mild surprise.

  The girl spoke first. She cleared her throat. ‘Good morning, mistress. Were ye wishing something?’

  ‘Is that broth?’

  ‘Aye. But ye’ll be having more than that, the day, for breakfast. I’ll be serving in the dining room in half an hour’s time.’

  ‘I…could I please just have a bowl of that, in here? Would that be possible?’

  The mild surprise grew more pronounced. Sophia stood uncomfortably and sought the words to tell them she was not accustomed to a great house such as this, that hers had always been a simple life—not poor, exactly, but not far above their own place in the order of society—and that, to her, this clean and cheery kitchen had an air of home about it that the dining room did not.

  The older woman, who till now had stood in silence at the hearth, looked Sophia up and down and said, ‘Come have a seat, then, mistress, if it pleases ye. Rory, shift your great and useless self and let the lady sit.’

  ‘Oh, please,’ Sophia said, ‘I didn’t mean—’

  The young man, Rory, stood without a protest, and with no change of expression to betray what he might think of this intrusion. ‘Time I got on with my work,’ was all he said before he left by the back corridor. Sophia heard the swing of hinges followed by the slamming of a door that sent a wave of chill air swirling through the kitchen’s warmth.

  ‘I didn’t mean that anyone should leave,’ Sophia said.

  ‘’Tis nae your doing,’ said the older woman firmly. ‘’Tis my own. The loon would sit there half the morning if he thought I’d let him do it. Kirsty, bring a bowl and spoon, so I can serve our guest her morning draught.’

  Kirsty looked to be about Sophia’s age, if not a little younger, with black curling hair and wide eyes. She moved, as Rory had, with the kind of swift obedience that came not out of fear, but from respect. ‘Aye, Mrs Grant.’

  Sophia sat and ate the hot broth, saying nothing lest she might disrupt these women more than she already had. She felt their eyes upon her as they moved about their work, and she was glad when she had finished and could push away the bowl, and thank them.

  Mrs Grant assured her it had been no trouble. ‘But,’ she added, carefully, ‘I dinna think that it would please the countess if ye were to make a habit of it.’

  Sophia glanced up, hopeful that the servants might already know what place she was to have within the household. ‘Am I then to take meals with the family?’

  ‘Aye, of course, and where else?’ Mrs Grant asked, ‘with ye being kin to the countess?’

  Sophia said, slowly, ‘There are many levels of kinship.’

  The older woman looked at her a moment, long, as though she sought to read behind those words, and then she hoisted another kettle onto its hook and said, ‘Nae to the Countess of Erroll, there aren’t.’

  ‘She seems a good woman.’

  ‘The best of all women. I’ve workit in this kitchen thirty years, since I was ages with Kirsty, and I ken the countess’s ways mair than most, and I’ll tell ye ye’ll nae find her equal on God’s earth.’ Her sideways glance smiled. ‘Did ye think ye’d be put into service?’

  ‘I did not know what to expect,’ said Sophia, not wanting to bare all her longings and fears to a stranger. The past was the past, after all, and what cared these two women for how she had struggled since losing her parents? She showed them a smile of her own. ‘But I see I have come to a good place.’

  Again Mrs Grant’s eyes searched hard for a heartbeat before she said, ‘Aye, that ye have. Kirsty.’

  Kirsty turned round.

  ‘They’ll be missing our guest in the dining room, presently. Best ye should show her the way.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Kirsty. ‘I’ll do that.’

  Sophia stood, gratefully. ‘Thank you.’

  The creases on Mrs Grant’s face that had looked stern beforehand now seemed to have been carved by smiles. ‘Ach, ’tis nae bother, mistress. Just mind now that ye eat your meal at table, else they’ll ken that I’ve been feedin ye in secret.’

  In the end, Sophia found she had no trouble eating everything that Kirsty served. The four days’ ride from Edinburgh had left her feeling ravenous, and Mrs Grant’s good cooking rivaled anything she’d eaten at the Duke of Hamilton’s own table.

  If the Countess of Erroll had wondered at Sophia’s late arrival to the dining room, she made no comment on it, only asked her in a friendly way if she had found the chamber to her liking.

  ‘Thank you, yes. I rested well.’

  ‘It is a plain room,’ said the countess, ‘and the fire must work to warm it, but the view is quite unequalled. On those days when the weather is fine, you must look to the sunrise, and tell me if it’s not the prettiest one you have seen.’

  Mr Hall, reaching for bread, gave Sophia a confiding wink. ‘That would be only one day of each month, my dear. The Lord has favored Slains in many ways, not least by providing this castle with such an amiable mistress, but He prefers, for reasons of His own, to leave those favors wrapped in fog and foul winds. If you should see the sunrise twice before the summer comes, then you may count yourself most fortunate.’

  The countess laughed. ‘Good Mr Hall, you’ll make the poor lass melancholy. I grant that you yourself have never seen Slains in fair weather, but the sun shines even here, from time to time.’

  She looked a younger woman when she laughed. She would have been approaching sixty, so Sophia judged, and yet her face was firm and well-complexioned, and her eyes were clear and knowing, lively with intelligence. They noticed when Sophia’s own gaze traveled to the portraits hung to each side of the window.

  ‘They are both handsome men,’ the countess told her, ‘are they not? That is my husband, the late earl. The artist gave him a stern countenance, but he was a most kindly man, in life. The other is my son, Charles, who is now the Earl of Erroll and, by birthright of that title, Lord High Constable of Scotland. Or what may be left of Scotland,’ she said, drily, ‘now that parliament has ratified the Union.’

  Mr Hall said, ‘Yes, it is a troubling thing.’

  ‘An injury,’ the countess said, ‘which I do hope will not go long unanswered.’

  Mr Hall glanced at Sophia in the way her uncle had when a discussion touched on something he had not thought fit for her to hear. He asked, ‘How does your son? I do regret I have not seen him much of late, in Edinburgh. Is he well?’

  ‘Quite well, I thank you, Mr Hall.’

  ‘His Grace the Duke of Hamilton remarked to me the other day he feared the Earl of Erroll did think ill of him, because the earl no longer keeps his company.’

  The countess sat back to let Kirsty clear the empty plate away, and smiled a careful smile that had an edge of warning to it. ‘I do not know my son’s opinions, nor yet his affairs.’

  ‘Of course not, no. I did not think that you should do so. I was only saying that the duke—’

  ‘Is surely man enough to ask directly of my son that which he wishes to be told, and not rely upon my word in such a matter.’

  It was a soft rebuke, but Mr Hall accepted it. ‘My lady, I apologize. I did not mean to give offence.’

  ‘And none is taken, Mr Hall.’ She deftly brought the conversation back to firmer ground. ‘You are not pressed to carry on your travels just at present, are you?’

  ‘No, my lady.’

  ‘I am pleased to hear it. We could do with a man’s company at Slains. There has been little entertainment here this winter, and our neighbors have kept closely to their own estates. I do confess that I have found the days here very dull, of late.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Mr Hall, ‘these next few weeks
will bring a change.’

  The countess smiled. ‘I do depend upon it.’ Turning to include Sophia, she said, ‘And I shall have no great fear of boredom now, with such a lively young companion. It is you, my dear, whom I suspect will find this house so dull that you will wish yourself away from it.’

  Sophia said, ‘I can assure you I will not.’ She said that with more certainty than she had first intended, and she added in a lighter voice, ‘I am not used to towns or cities. I do much prefer a quiet life.’

  ‘That I can give you,’ said the countess. ‘For a time, at least. Until the families round us learn that I have now a pretty, unwed kinswoman who bides with me, for then I fear that we may be lain siege to by the curious.’ Her eyes danced warmly, welcoming the sport.

  Sophia took it in good part, and made no comment. She had no expectations of local young men clamoring for her attentions, for she knew that she was no rare beauty—just an ordinary girl of common parentage, without an income or a dowry that could make a man of good birth think she was desirable.

  Mr Hall remarked, ‘Then it is just as well that I should stay, to help you fight them off.’ He pushed his chair back on the floor. ‘But now, with your indulgence, I must go and write a letter to His Grace, so to acquaint him with my plans. You have the means, my lady, do you not, to see that such a message reaches Edinburgh?’

  The countess answered that she did, and with a formal bow he left them, wishing them good morning. The little maid, Kirsty, moved to clear his plate as well, and the countess said, ‘Kirsty, I do owe you thanks for showing Mistress Paterson the way to us this morning. It was fortunate that she did find you.’

  Kirsty glanced up in surprise, and seemed to pause a moment as if seeking how to twist the truth, before she said, ‘My lady, ye’ve no need to thank me. All I did was meet her in the passageway. She would have found ye here without my help.’

  The countess smiled. ‘That may be so, but I confess I did forget my duties as a hostess, and how simple it can be to lose one’s way, at Slains. If you have finished now, Sophia, come and let me show you round the castle, so you will not need to fear becoming lost.’

  The tour was long, and thorough.

  At its end the countess showed her to a small room on the ground floor at the corner of the castle. ‘Do you sew?’ she asked.

  ‘I do, my lady. Is there something you wish mended?’

  The answer seemed to strike the countess strangely, for she paused, and turned her gaze upon Sophia for a moment, and then told her, ‘No, I only meant to tell you that this room is good for sewing, as it has the southern light. I am, I fear, an indifferent seamstress myself. My mind does not compose itself to detailed work, but is inclined to drift most shamefully to other thoughts.’ She smiled, but her eyes held to Sophia’s face.

  The little room felt warmer than the others, being smaller and more cozy, and with greater light which flooded through the windows and did not permit the gathering of shadows.

  The countess asked, ‘How long, Sophia, were you in the household of John Drummond?’

  ‘Eight years, my lady.’

  ‘Eight years.’ There was a measured pause. ‘I did not know my kinsman well. We played some time as children long ago, in Perth. He was a most unpleasant child, as I recall. And very fond,’ she said, ‘of breaking things.’ She raised a hand, and with a mother’s touch, smoothed one bright curl back from Sophia’s face. ‘I rather would repair them.’

  That was all she said, and all she was to say, about John Drummond.

  As the days went on, Sophia came to realize that the countess rarely ventured to speak ill of anyone, for all she was a woman of opinions. And she treated all the servants of her household, from the lowest maid who labored in the scullery to the solemn-faced chaplain himself, with an equal grace and courtesy. But an impression grew upon Sophia, based on nothing greater than a certain guarded tone of voice, a flash of something deeper in the eyes when the countess and Mr Hall were speaking, that the countess did not share his admiration of the Duke of Hamilton.

  But she plainly did like Mr Hall, and when three weeks had come and gone the priest was still a guest at Slains, and no one talked of his departure.

  Every day he kept the same routine: his morning draught, and then a private hour in which Sophia thought he might have prayed or tended to his business, then in fair or foul weather he would walk along the cliffs above the sea. Sophia envied him those walks. She was herself, by virtue of her sex, expected to keep closer to the castle’s walls, and venture not much further than the kitchen garden, where she felt the ever-watchful eyes of Mrs Grant. But on this day the sky was clearing, and the sun hung like a beacon in it, and there was in everyone a restlessness, such as all creatures felt in those first days when dying winter started giving way to spring, and so when Mr Hall announced that he would take his walk, Sophia begged to be allowed to go with him, although he made a protest that the path would be too difficult.

  ‘It is too far, and over ground too rough. Your slippers would be ruined.’

  ‘Then I shall wear my old ones. And I do not fear the walk with you to guide me.’

  The countess glanced towards her with a blend of understanding and amusement, and then shared that look with Mr Hall. ‘She is most uncommonly healthy. I have no objection to letting her go, if you will see she does take care, when on the cliffs, that she goes not too near the edge.’

  He did not take her near the cliffs, but inland, past hard fallow fields and tenant farms, where soft-eyed cows came out to stare, and red-cheeked children peered around the cottage doors and wondered at their passing. To Sophia, this was more familiar than the wilder landscape of the North Sea coast, although a part of her this morning seemed to want to feel that wildness, and she did not mind when Mr Hall suggested they start back to Slains.

  The sky above the sea was almost free of cloud, and bright as far as she could see, and while the wind blew strongly it had come around and blew now from the southwest, and it did not seem as cold against her face. The water, too, although still ridged with white, had lost its angry roll and came to shore with better manners, not exploding on the rocks but merely curling foam around them and receding, in an almost soothing rhythm.

  It was not the sea itself, though, that Sophia’s gaze was drawn to, but the ship that rode upon it, rode to anchor with its sails tight-folded underneath the white cross of Saint Andrew blazoned on a field of Scottish blue.

  She hadn’t expected to see a ship so close to land, and so far to the north, and the sight of it took her entirely by surprise. ‘What ship is that?’ she asked.

  The sight of the ship appeared to have affected Mr Hall even more strongly than it had herself, for it took him a moment before he replied, and his voice held a curious quality that might have been disappointment, she thought, or displeasure. ‘’Tis the Royal William. Captain Gordon’s ship.’ He looked at it a minute longer, then he said, ‘I wonder if he simply pays the countess his respects, or if he means to come ashore?’

  The answer waited for them in the drawing room.

  The man who rose for introduction cut a gallant figure. Sophia judged him to be about forty, and good-looking in his naval captain’s uniform, with gold braid on his long blue coat and every button polished, and a white cravat wound elegantly round his throat and knotted, and a curled wig of the latest fashion. But his stance was firm and not the least affected, and his blue eyes were straightforward. ‘Your servant,’ he assured Sophia, when she was presented to him.

  ‘Captain Gordon,’ said the countess, ‘is an old and valued friend, and does us honor with his company.’ She turned to him. ‘We’ve missed you, Thomas, this past winter. Have you been laid up, or were you on another voyage to the Indies?’

  ‘The Royal William has been these months in the road of Leith, my lady. This is our first journey north.’

  ‘And where, now, are you bound?’

  ‘I am commissioned to keep up the old patrol, between the Orkney
Isles and Tynemouth, though I do not doubt but that will alter when the Union takes effect.’

  Mr Hall said to Sophia, ‘Captain Gordon is the commodore of our Scots navy frigates on the eastern coast, which soon will be absorbed into the navy of Great Britain.’

  ‘And who then,’ asked the countess, ‘will protect our shores from privateers?’ But she was smiling when she said it, and Sophia had again the sense of being on the outside of a private understanding. ‘Please,’ the countess said, ‘be at your ease, and let us have a proper visit.’ And with that she sat, and called Sophia over to the easy chair beside her, while the gentlemen took rush chairs with red leather cushions nearer to the window.

  Sophia was aware of Captain Gordon’s gaze upon her, and because it made her feel a bit uncomfortable, she sought to break the silence. ‘Are there many privateers, sir, who would prey upon our coast?’

  ‘Aye, that there are,’ the captain said. ‘The French and Spanish have an eye for our Scots shipping.’

  Mr Hall’s good-natured comment was, ‘I would suspect their interest profits you far more than it does them. Do you not keep the spoils of any ship you capture?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Captain Gordon, comfortably. ‘And few ships can outrun the Royal William. Even French ones.’

  Mr Hall asked, ‘Have you come across a French ship lately?’

  ‘I’ve not seen one. But I’m told Queen Anne does take a special interest in ships setting out from France this spring. And I am warned, by those above me, to be particularly watchful.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘It is.’ The captain’s answer hung in silence for a moment, as though needing thought. And then he shrugged a shoulder and said, ‘Still, it is not easy to be everywhere at once. I dare say anyone determined to slip by me could accomplish it.’

  The countess cast a glance towards Sophia, and then lightly changed the subject to the news that Captain Gordon brought from Edinburgh, and gossip of the Union.

  When the captain took his leave an hour later, he said fondly to the countess, ‘I remain, my lady Erroll, your most steadfast friend and servant. Trust in that.’