Stuart tried his best to look offended, but he couldn’t. In his easygoing way, he said, ‘Well, go on, then. Enlighten me.’
Graham’s eyes were indulgent. ‘Robert the Bruce was in Braveheart, so you’ll ken who he was?’
‘Aye. The King of Scotland.’
‘And his daughter married onto the High Steward, so from that you’ve got the “Stewart” line, which went through two more Roberts and a heap of Jameses before coming down to Mary, Queen of Scots. You’ve heard of her?’
‘Nice girl, bad marriages,’ said Stuart, sitting back to play along.
‘And Mary’s son, another James, became the heir to Queen Elizabeth of England, who died without a child. So now you’ve got a Stewart being King of Scotland and of England, though he acts more English, now, than Scots, and rarely even sets a foot up here. Nor does his son, King Charles the First, who gets a bit too cocky with his powers, so along come Cromwell and his men to say they’ve had enough of kings, and they depose King Charles the First and cut his head off.’
‘With you so far.’
‘Then the English, after years of Civil War and having Cromwell and his parliament in charge awhile, decide that they’d be better off with kings, after all, so they invite the old king’s son, Charles Stewart—Charles the Second—to come back and take the throne. And when he dies in 1685, his brother James becomes the king, which would be no real problem, only James is Catholic. Very Catholic. And not only do the English fear he’s trying to edge out their hard-won Protestant religion, they also fear he’ll enter an alliance with the Catholic King of France, who’s their worst enemy.’
He paused to take a drink from his own glass which, like his father’s, held neat whisky. Then he went on with the story.
‘The aristocracy in England starts to think of getting rid of James and putting someone on the throne who’ll be a Protestant, as they are, and against the French. And they have the perfect candidate in front of them, for James’s eldest daughter, Mary, has a Protestant husband who’s been waging war against the French for years, and who has had his eye upon the English throne since long before that—William, Prince of Orange. It doesn’t matter that he’s Dutch because he’s Mary’s husband, so if she’s made queen, he’ll only need an act of Parliament to rule as king beside her.
‘But just as the aristocrats are making all their plans, King James’s second wife gives birth to a son. Now the English have a problem, because male heirs trump females. So they put around a rumor that the newborn prince is not a prince at all, but just a common child that James had smuggled into his queen’s chamber in a warming pan, to give himself an heir. It’s not the most convincing story, but to those who want a reason to rise up against James, it’s enough.
‘What follows isn’t quite a war—it’s more a game of chess, with knights and nobles changing sides—and within six months James, his queen, and their wee heir have fled to France. It’s not the first time James has done this, mind— when he was just a lad and his own father, Charles I, was in the middle of a Civil War, James was taken by his mother into France for safety. And although his father was beheaded and the Stewarts had to live awhile in exile, in the end the English asked them to come back and take the throne. So James remembers this, and trusts the same will happen now if he just keeps his head down, waits things out. And so he takes his queen and prince to live at Saint-Germain, where he spent his own exile as a lad, and by the spring of 1689 his daughter Mary and her husband William have the English throne, and Scotland, having held a vote, declares for William, too.
‘So now,’ he said, ‘our country’s split in factions—those who, mostly Presbyterian, can stomach having Mary for a queen because she’s Scottish and a Protestant besides, and those who think she’s got no right to rule, not with her father living and a brother who’s ahead of her in line. This second group, the ones who want to put King James back on the throne, are called the Jacobites,’ he said, ‘from “Jacobus”, the Latin name for “James”.’
Stuart raised his hand. ‘Am I allowed another drink?’
‘Aye.’ Graham smiled, and took another swig of whisky while his brother briefly left the room, returning with a full glass and a question for their father.
‘Should the oven still be on?’
‘Ach, na.’ And rising, Jimmy left the room with urgency.
As Stuart took his seat again, he said to me, ‘He’s never met a roast he hasn’t burned past recognition.’
Graham shared the joke and shrugged. ‘We eat them, all the same.’
‘I’m only warning her,’ said Stuart. ‘Anyhow, where were we? I was asking, I believe, about the Union, and so far you haven’t mentioned it.’ To me, as an aside, ‘These academics always ramble on.’
‘So, with King William on the throne,’ said Graham, patiently recapping, ‘we’ve got Scotland in a muddle, and enjoying one long chain of rotten luck. Towards the last years of the century, the harvests are so poor that people starve to death in droves, while English laws and tariffs choke out Scottish trade and navigation. And when a Scottish company scrapes up enough investment for a colony at Darien, in Panama, to take a bit of trade away from England’s East India Company, the English slam it hard by cutting off supplies and aid that might have helped the colonists survive. When Darien fails, the investors lose everything. Scotland is not only broke, but in debt, and we have nothing left to sell,’ he said, ‘except our independence.
‘William’s a widower now, but still fighting with France. He doesn’t want to die and leave the French king any cards to play with, and so long as Scotland is a separate country, there will always be the threat that King James Stewart or his son, young James, might, with the backing of the French, return and cause the English trouble. It makes sense, in William’s mind, that since the thrones of England and of Scotland had been joined some hundred years before, that now the parliaments should join as well, and make one single country of Great Britain.’
‘Ah,’ said Stuart, beginning to comprehend.
‘And when William dies, he passes on this policy of Union to Queen Anne, his wife’s sister and the second daughter of the old King James. Anne’s a little nicer than her sister. She at least admits in private that young James is her half-brother, and it’s widely hoped that, since she has no living children of her own, she’ll name him as her heir. But her advisors have their own agenda, and they quickly see to it she chooses as her heir another relative, from the German House of Hanover.
‘The Scottish parliament replies it won’t accept the Hanoverian succession unless Scotland has the freedom to opt out of foreign policies that go against our interests, like the war Queen Anne’s still waging with the Spanish and the French.’
‘And I’m guessing,’ Stuart ventured, ‘that the English didn’t go for that.’
‘They hit us,’ Graham said, ‘with the Alien Act, which said in effect that unless we Scots came to the table to talk about a Union, every Scot who lived in England would be treated as an alien, and all estates in England owned by Scots would be repatriated, and our exports banned.’
‘We had no choice, then,’ Stuart said.
His brother looked at him. ‘There is always a choice. But Scotland’s nobles, as ever, were rich on both sides of the border, and few of them wanted to risk their own fortunes, so in the end, they sat down at the table. And our friend the Duke of Hamilton proposed that the selection of commissioners to talk about the Union should be left up to Queen Anne herself. He put it to a snap vote in the parliament when the opposition weren’t all in their seats, and so it passed by a few votes, and that meant virtually all the commissioners were pro-Union. That,’ Graham said, ‘was just one of the small, sneaky things that he did.’
‘So the Union went through.’
Graham grinned. ‘Did ye not go to school?’
‘Well, we have our own parliament, now.’
‘Aye, but that’s only recent. Christ, Stuie, you’re not that young, surely, that you can’t remember the whole
campaign around the country for home rule? The Scottish National Party? Everybody marching in the streets?’ When Stuart looked back at him blankly, Graham shook his head. ‘You are a lost cause, aren’t you?’
Shrugging, Stuart took it in good part, and told his brother, ‘I was likely overseas, when all of that was going on.’
‘More likely sitting in the pub.’
‘It’s possible,’ said Stuart. ‘Does it really matter?’
‘Not unless your children ask you where you were the day our parliament re-opened after nearly three full centuries without one.’
I was privately inclined to think it wouldn’t be a problem. Stuart Keith was not the kind of man who married and had children. With him, life was all great fun and play, and staying with one woman while she aged, or sitting up with crying babies, simply wasn’t in his cards.
It had been interesting to sit here in my chair and watch the two of them while Graham gave his history lesson— both men with their different personalities, yet brothers through and through. Beneath the banter ran a deeper vein of genuine affection and respect, and it was clear they truly liked each other.
Jimmy, when he came back in to tell us lunch was ready, made the triangle complete, and from the way the three men interacted, I could tell that this had always been a happy home.
Could tell, too, that it hadn’t seen a woman’s touch in quite some time. This was a man’s house now, from the mismatched and practical earthenware dishes to the no-nonsense table we ate on.
From the sideboard, a silver-framed photograph smiled at us all. Jimmy noticed me looking. ‘My wife,’ he said. ‘Isobel.’
I would have known that without being told. I was already closely acquainted with eyes that, like hers, were the grey of the North Sea in winter. I said, ‘She was lovely.’
‘Aye. It’s a shame she’s nae here, the noo. She’d’ve hid a puckle questions tae speir at ye, about yer books. Allus wantit tae write one hersel.’
Graham said, ‘She likely could have helped you with your research, come to that. My mother’s family go a long way back, here.’
‘Fairly that,’ said Jimmy, nodding. ‘She’d’ve telt ye stories, quine. And she’d’ve geen ye a better meal.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with this one,’ I assured him. The roast beef, as Stuart had warned, was a little bit blackened and dry, but with gravy it went down just fine, and the carrots and roasted potatoes, though overdone too, were surprisingly good.
‘Don’t encourage him,’ Stuart advised. He had taken the chair at my side, and from time to time his arm brushed mine. I knew the show of closeness was no accident, but short of picking up my chair and moving it away there wasn’t much that I could do. I only hoped that Graham, facing me across the table, understood.
I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
This was not the way I’d hoped this afternoon would go. I’d thought it would be only Jimmy, me, and Graham; that we’d have a chance to talk, and maybe afterwards he’d walk me home, and…well, who knew what might have happened, then.
But Stuart had his own ideas. While he’d been content enough to sit through Graham’s history lesson earlier, he now appeared determined not to share the limelight. Every time the conversation turned away from him he deftly drew it back again, and Graham, calmly silent, let him do it.
By the time the meal had ended I was frustrated with both of them—with Stuart’s all but marking out his territory round me, like a dog, to warn his older brother not to trespass, and with Graham’s sitting back and letting Stuart get away with it.
For Jimmy’s sake, I stayed until we’d finished with our coffee, and he’d started clearing plates away to do the washing up. I offered to help, but he shook his head firmly. ‘Na, na, nivver fash, quine. Keep yer strength fer yer writing.’
Which gave me an opening, when I had thanked him for lunch, to announce that I ought to be going. ‘I left my book this morning in the middle of a chapter, and I ought to get it done.’
‘A’richt. Jist let me put these in the kitchen.’ Jimmy, with the plates piled in his hands, looked down at Stuart. ‘Stuie, quit yer scuddlin, loon, and go and fetch her coat.’
Stuart went, and Jimmy followed after him, which left me on my own, with Graham.
I felt him watching me. My own gaze stayed quite firmly on the tablecloth in front of me, as I sat sifting words, and then discarding them again while I tried hard to think of what to say.
But he spoke first. He said, ‘“The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men…”’
He’d meant for me to smile, I knew. I didn’t.
Graham said, ‘You realize Stuart thinks of you as being his?’
‘I know.’ I raised my head at that, and met his eyes. ‘I’m not.’
‘I know.’ His voice was quiet, willing me to understand. ‘But he’s my brother.’
And just what, I thought, was that supposed to mean? That since his brother had such clear designs on me, he didn’t think it right to interfere? That, never mind my preference, or the fact that something seemed to be developing between us, Graham thought it best to just forget it, give it up, because his brother might object?
‘Here you are,’ said Stuart, breezing through the doorway of the sitting-room, my coat in hand. The one good thing about self-centered men, I thought, was that they were oblivious to everything around them. Any other person walking into that room at that moment would have surely been aware of something hanging in the air between myself and Graham.
But Stuart only held my coat for me, while Jimmy, coming back, said, ‘Div ye want one o’ the loons tae walk ye hame?’
‘No, that’s all right.’ I thanked him once again for lunch and shrugged my coat on and, still with my back to Stuart, somehow summoned up the thin edge of a smile to show to Graham. ‘I’ll be fine,’ I told them, ‘on my own.’
So, not a problem, I assured myself. I’d come to Cruden Bay to work, to write my book. I didn’t have the time to get involved with someone, anyway.
My bathwater was cooling, but I settled deeper into it until the water lapped my chin. My characters were talking, as they always did when I was in the bath, but I tried shutting out their voices—in particular the calm voice of John Moray, whose grey, watchful eyes seemed everywhere around me.
I regretted having made him look like Graham. I could hardly change it now, he’d taken shape and would resist it, but I really didn’t need an everyday reminder of a man who’d thrown me over.
Moray’s voice said something, low. I sighed, and rolled to reach the pen and paper that I kept beside the tub. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Hang on.’
I wrote his words down, and Sophia’s voice spoke up with a response, and in a minute I had pulled the plug and stepped out of the bathtub and was buttoning my clothes so I could head for the computer, smiling faintly at the thought of how the worst things in my life sometimes inspired the best plot twists.
When I’d stood and talked to Graham in the stables, only yesterday, surrounded by the horses and the dog curled in the hay, so like the scene that I’d just written in my book, I had been thinking how life echoed art.
And now the time had come, I thought, for art to echo life.
VII
MORAY’S GAZE HAD SWUNG away and out to sea, and suddenly he pulled upon the gelding’s reins and brought him to a standstill.
Stopping too, Sophia asked, ‘What is it?’
Even as she spoke the words, she saw it, too—a ship, just coming into view around the jagged headland to the south. She could not see its colors yet, but something in the way it seemed to prowl the coastline made her apprehensive.
Moray, with no change of his expression, turned his horse. ‘’Tis time we started back.’
She made no argument, but turning with him, followed at that same slow, measured walk that gained them little ground before the silent, purposeful advance of those full sails. Sophia knew he only held them to that pace for her own comfort, and that chivalry wo
uld keep him from increasing it, so of her own accord she urged the mare into a rolling canter that would speed their progress.
Moray, left behind a moment, unprepared, was quickly at her side again, and when they reached the stableyard of Slains he stretched a hand to take the bridle of the mare and hold her steady as she halted.
He was not exactly smiling, but his eyes held deep amusement. ‘I believe ’tis proper form, when running races, to inform the other party when to start.’ Swinging himself from the saddle, he came and put his two hands round her waist to help her down.
Sophia said, ‘I did not mean to race. I only—’
‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I ken what ye intended.’ She was standing on the ground now, but he did not take his hands away. He held her very differently than Billy Wick had done—his hands were gentle, and she knew that she had but to move to step clear of their circle…but she felt no will to move. The horse, still standing warm against her back, became a living wall that blocked her view of everything except John Moray’s shoulders, and his face as he looked down at her. ‘If ever ye do find my pace too slow,’ he told her, quietly, ‘ye only have to tell me.’
She knew he was not speaking of their ride. She felt the flush begin to rise along her throat, her neck, her cheeks, while in her chest her heartbeat leaped against her stays with…what? Not fear, but something strangely kin to that emotion, as she thought of what might happen if she were to give him any answer.
‘Colonel Moray!’ Running feet approached and Rory broke upon them, taking little notice this time of their close position. Other things of more importance occupied him now. He said, ‘Her ladyship does ask for you, without delay.’
Sophia felt the hands fall from her waist as Moray gave a formal nod and took his leave of her. ‘Ye will excuse me?’
‘Certainly.’ She was relieved to find she had a voice and that it sounded almost normal, and was more relieved yet to discover, when she took a step, that her still-trembling legs could move at all, and hold her upright.
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