A Falcon for a Queen

by Catherine Gaskin

  ‘Does it look down on Cluain?’

  ‘No ‒ that’s what’s strange. It looks straight across the glen at the narrowest part. The dark side of Ballochtorra, I call it. But Gavin likes it.’

  The tea was brought, and Margaret laughed at how meagre it seemed beside what Mairi Sinclair had served. But the silver tray was laid with delicate sandwiches, and a dish of tiny, marzipan-coated cakes; at Ballochtorra the cook strove to tempt the jaded appetites of ladies, not to fill the hungry stomachs of countryfolk.

  Margaret ran her finger along the bevelled edge of the table from which she served. A minute trace of dust was revealed. ‘Oh, I shall have to speak to Mrs Macgregor again. Not that she can help it, poor thing. How can you hope to keep things clean with building going on? The place is nothing but dust.’

  ‘Yes, I heard the hammering.’

  ‘The whole valley hears the hammering. It is terrible. It should be done when we are away, but my father has taken it into his head that we must convert two rooms which weren’t being used into one large billiard room for when the Prince visits. Can you imagine it? Workmen brought from London, even ‒ cabinetmakers for panelling, all that sort of thing. And all in a rush. And Father thought the library was too shabby, and so all the furniture must be reupholstered, and most of the books rebound. Except those that Gavin refused to let him have ‒ he took them all up to his study. The silly thing is, of course, that the Prince never reads a book, even on a wet day. But the new leather bindings are beautiful colours …’

  It sounded silly, and light-minded, and perhaps it was. But whatever she said and did was with such apparent desire to please, that very few could have resisted it. And after all, if there was money to be spent, she would enjoy spending it. Then too, there was for me the novelty of the change from Cluain. Here there was no austerity, little sign of the earnest drive that sparked my grandfather’s life, and the passion for hard work that seemed to be part of Mairi Sinclair’s religion. I relaxed against the silken cushions, I listened to the flow of light gossip and easy laughter that came from Margaret Campbell, and I was charmed all over again. In the midst of all this, the enjoyment, the thought struck me that at Cluain I never heard anyone laugh ‒ not even Morag. My grandfather might have replied to that thought that there was little to laugh at.

  ‘Do you play, Kirsty?’ Margaret Campbell indicated the piano.

  ‘No.’ I said it outright, at last escaping from the fact that I played very badly. Here, no one need know that I had tried to play at all, and the childhood nightmare of stumbling through my pieces would be gone forever. It was not even a lie.

  ‘Oh ‒ I’m sorry. I used to have such an amusing time with William. We used to try duets together. He was quite good ‒ not serious, though. Gavin thought we were a pair of fools. Gavin’s music is so ‒ so intense. He would rather no one heard him play. He spends so much time in that bleak church up there, playing for himself. Even in winter, when it’s almost too cold to bear. Gavin thinks I’m … silly.’

  ‘I’m sure he doesn’t.’ I said it gently.

  ‘Perhaps he doesn’t consciously think it. But when he goes off to that church alone I know he would rather have been what he wanted to be ‒ an organist in some cathedral town. Working all day, training a choir, perhaps, with a good, quiet wife waiting at home. He doesn’t really like Ballochtorra. Not the way it is now. And to tell you the truth, neither do I. It was good in the beginning, when we were just married. A ruin of a fortress, really, but it was beautiful in a wild sort of way.’ Her tone altered, the faint regret changing to a kind of determined optimism. ‘Well, perhaps one thinks that way when one is young ‒ and it doesn’t last for anyone. My father began to build and build, and it has become so big, Gavin seems lost here. He loves the moors and the mountains, but really, I think he would be happier in a cottage. When we are alone here, and I see him down the length of that big dining table, I almost think he wishes I were not here. And then he could just play his music and read his books ‒ and forget about having to find something to say to me.’

  She was actually smiling as she said it, and those flecked amber eyes were glowing as if she were not tolling the knell of a marriage. Only the slight plucking at the lace of her handkerchief betrayed her. ‘It isn’t his fault. He didn’t ask to be saddled with Ballochtorra, and with my father. And now this other title coming, and things will be even more so. He loved me, you know ‒ he did love me. But all this has built up like a wall between us ‒ I can feel all the things he loves, his music and books, walking on the moors, on one side of the wall, and on the other side there’s my father’s money. We can hardly see each other over it all ‒ or speak. The truth is, Gavin would like to work ‒ and my father does not think it fitting for his daughter’s husband to be involved in business. He must be a gentleman, and wait for his title, and then that little boy from the Glasgow slums that used to be my father will be buried forever. Jamie will probably never see the inside of a distillery, and it is driving Gavin wild that he can teach him nothing about the world that’s coming to him. My father says the business will just grow and grow, that whisky will go on expanding, and there will be competent people to manage it. Jamie’s name will go on the company directors’ list, but he will never be in the management of the business. It’s money, you see. It has made my father. And me ‒ I love spending it. But it is ruining Gavin. When the house is built in London I doubt that Gavin will come for more than a few weeks a year ‒ only when he must make an appearance. He will stay at Ballochtorra ‒ and I, I will be the gayest, brightest hostess in London, and the Prince of Wales will come to my dinner parties. And my husband will be that awkward Scottish peer that everyone is glad isn’t there to spoil the fun.’

  Her tone wavered. ‘The odd thing is, I suspect Gavin might be very good at business ‒ if anyone ever gave him the chance.

  ‘Well ‒ I’ve talked too much ‒ but I’ve needed to so badly. People misjudge me ‒ or I make them misjudge me. They think I’m such a fool I don’t know how Gavin feels. But do they know how I feel? I can’t help it about my father. I can’t help it that having all the money has made me so lonely here. No wonder I want to escape to London, to fill the house with guests. I must have distraction, or sometimes, I think I’ll go a little mad. I loved the times William came. He made me laugh, and forget it all. He was so good at so many things … he was so clever …’

  ‘Did you talk to him like this ‒ I mean about your husband?’

  ‘You mean William was younger than I, and might have been shocked? But you see, William knew. He could see it at once. He was older than he seemed. That’s why I’m talking like a fool to you, because it seems almost like having William back again. I don’t babble like this to everyone. Oh … my father would be furious if he heard me. He knows what goes on in the lives of the people I mix with, all the careful arranging of bedrooms when there’s a house party. But he doesn’t care just so long as the façade of the marriage is kept up, and the guest list is fashionable, and no divorces ever come of it all. It sounds wicked, doesn’t it ‒ and it is. But he is ambitious ‒ so terribly ambitious. He would not approve of that behaviour for himself ‒ and probably not for me, because Gavin would not stand for it. But he wants me to be a great hostess, and so I must know these people. If there are rumours … well, that can’t be helped. That is part of the game.’

  Suddenly the long delicate fingers shredded the lace handkerchief with surprising strength and violence. ‘Oh, you must despise me!’

  ‘Why should I despise you? What have I got to feel superior about?’

  Her eyes widened. ‘You’re a bishop’s daughter!’

  ‘I grew up in China. I’ve seen too many young girls sold and used to feel surprised that it might happen in other places ‒ in other ways. Didn’t William explain any of this to you?’

  ‘He did ‒ in a way. But I never talked like this to William. He was a man. It might have been …’

  ‘Misunderstood?’

>   ‘Perhaps. I valued William … as a friend. He knew I was lonely. It wasn’t necessary to say any more. I’ve said too much now. I’ve put too much on you. And I don’t want you to hate my father. He can’t help it. I’ve seen the sort of place he grew up in.’ A faint shudder went through her body. ‘I would do anything ‒ anything ‒ to get out of such a place. I can’t blame him. He gave me a different sort of education, and I’m supposed to be free of all the need to fight people for what one wants. What he doesn’t understand, and never will, is that the world he’s pushed me into is just as scheming and full of competition as the one he came out of. And dear God … the worst of it …’

  ‘What is the worst of it?’ She was going to say it, even if I tried to hold her back.

  ‘Gavin doesn’t know to this day that my father made very careful enquiries about his whole family before he let me marry him. Of course Gavin was already a baronet, but I doubt seriously if he’d even more than heard of the Marquis of Rossmuir. My father knew all along that there was a very good chance that Gavin would eventually have the title, even though there were two other men to succeed in between. But he knew one was sick in India, and the other had been mixed up in some gambling scandal here, and was drinking himself to death in the Congo. That is why he let me marry Gavin. It was a gamble ‒ and it has paid off. My father loves to gamble. This has been his greatest win yet. Ten years ago my father wasn’t so successful or so rich ‒ and there were not titles to be picked up for the asking for his daughter. Titles demanded solid money. It sounds so rotten and corrupt, doesn’t it? But it wasn’t meant to be. I loved Gavin ‒ yes, I did love him.’

  She got up, and the swish of the silk of her gown as she paced was all I heard in the room for a full minute. Then she turned back and faced me. ‘There ‒ I’ve said it all. Everything. I’ve never talked like this in my life. I don’t know what has possessed me. Perhaps I’ve never been willing to admit it before ‒ but my father is visiting us now, and because of the Prince coming, he seems more ‒ oh, how do I say it? ‒ more pushing than he’s ever been. Gavin is feeling the strain, and so am I. I had to talk … do you mind so much? You ‒ I think you like me. You have no reason to like me, but I think you do.’

  ‘I do like you. Rather more than that.’

  ‘William liked me, too.’

  ‘Of course William liked you. Who could help it?’

  We both swung to face the door. Gavin Campbell stood there, and he was smiling ‒ a smile that told us nothing. There was no way of knowing how much he had heard, and I guessed he was never likely to say. Like William, he knew more than he had to be told. Now he was moving towards us.

  ‘There’s some tea left, I hope.’

  Strangely Margaret Campbell was flustered. ‘Why ‒ of course! I’ll ring for some fresh‒’

  ‘No, don’t! I don’t want the fuss. There must be some left. I don’t mind it strong.’

  ‘There isn’t a cup for you. I never thought ‒ well, you never come in to tea here, Gavin.’

  ‘Don’t I? I forget to have it, I suppose. Never mind. They told me Miss Howard had come. I thought I’d come to find out what has taken her so long to visit. It isn’t very friendly. Has that old man, Angus Macdonald, told you you shouldn’t come?’

  ‘Not in so many words. He leaves me much to myself. I expect I was just … shy.’

  ‘Why! ‒ William’s sister shy! The girl who came all the way from China without an invitation is shy.’ He laughed. ‘You’ll never convince me of it ‒ no, Margaret, don’t ring! I can’t stand all the fuss. There’ll be six maids as well as Wilson hovering.’ Still on his feet he took up a sandwich and ate it.

  ‘Oh, Gavin, please …’ Margaret looked at him pleadingly. ‘You so seldom come in here, and I can’t even give you a cup of tea.’

  He didn’t reply to her. ‘Mairi Sinclair does things rather differently, I should imagine.’

  ‘Arrangements are simpler at Cluain,’ I answered. ‘It’s only a step from the kitchen to the dining-room. And there’s only Morag …’

  ‘Yes ‒ simpler. That’s how it should be. Margaret and I are trapped by the people who are paid to wait on us. And there’s Jamie, growing up hardly knowing how to tie his own bootlaces.’

  ‘Gavin! ‒ that’s not fair! He does his best.’

  ‘He does more than his best. It’s a minor miracle that he hasn’t as yet turned into a spoiled little prig. And I know you won’t let that happen, Margaret.’ He looked at me. ‘You see, Margaret has that rare gift of being able to laugh at herself, and she’s passed it on to her son, I think. She never allows him to forget where his grandfather started. And Jamie knows I only tumbled into my position. And I give Margaret credit for that.’

  Then he walked to the piano, quite abruptly, and sat down. The music that came was not as I expected it to be. The melody was so well known, almost hackneyed, not the sort of thing a serious musician would play.

  ‘I have a feeling Kirsty can sing. William had a good voice.’ He spoke across the music to me.

  I had always been told I had a ‘pretty voice’, and I’d never paid any attention to that. But now suddenly I felt that I wanted to sing ‒ and yes, I could sing. I walked across to the piano, and stood slightly behind Gavin, glancing quickly at the music, but having no real need of it.

  ‘If a body meet a body

  Comin’ through the rye …’

  He was singing also, a strong, good voice, a dark voice, almost, that seemed at odds with his fair hair and light eyes. Across the room from us I could see Margaret Campbell, handkerchief twisting again in her lovely hands. ‘Why, Gavin … I never heard you play anything like this.’

  He shook his head, as if to indicate that she was not to interrupt. I found myself singing alone.

  ‘… all the lads, they smile at me

  Comin’ through the rye.’

  He had turned and was staring at me, that peculiar, straight stare I had first encountered on Ballinaclash station, a stare that seemed to lock out everything else in the world. ‘Yes, I thought so. You have a voice.’ The laugh was loud, triumphant. ‘My God, you have a voice!’

  I don’t know why it should have mattered to him; but in the moments of that stare and those words, even Margaret Campbell was shut out. We might easily have been alone.

  Gavin escorted me to the stables that first time, leading me through the back passages of Ballochtorra, the noise of the hammering about us, but the age of the place revealed in these winding, twisting ways. I felt I was back at Cluain. And then Gavin opened the door that led directly on to the stableyard, and here the building was so new that the ivy had not yet had time to take hold. A great overweight clock tower dominated a quadrangle of theatrically fashioned horse-boxes, and the entrance to the smith’s shop was the traditional shape of a horseshoe. ‘A bad opera setting,’ Gavin murmured to me as he slammed the door. ‘Enough thoroughbreds to satisfy a king’s taste, and I keep wondering when the prince-in-disguise-as-stable-lad will appear.’

  ‘They are your horses.’

  ‘Nominally, they’re my horses, and I have to confess that I haven’t the strength to say no to any one of the beauties. Why should I? ‒ some other way would be found to spend the money. It pleases Mr Ferguson. Give him his due, he does know good horseflesh, and loves it. I just wish horses pleased us both for the same reasons. At least we would have one thing we could talk about together.’

  ‘It rarely happens that the same things please people for the same reasons.’

  ‘William was always making remarks like that. It sometimes gave me the odd feeling that I was talking to someone older than myself.’

  I laughed, refusing to let him make anything more serious of it. The episode in Margaret Campbell’s sitting-room had frightened me a little; I wanted to brush aside what both of them seemed to be thrusting upon me. ‘That’s because William and I were brought up on Confucian sayings. The Chinese live by proverbs … We used to play games of making up our own, the
more ridiculous the better. Like … “the shortest line between two points is the longest way home”.’

  ‘And there’s more wisdom in that than perhaps you know, Miss Howard.’

  We had been standing watching as little Ailis was brought out by a groom, and the voice came to us from the shadow of the smithy’s door. We turned and looked, and the rounded, shortish shape of a man in brown tweeds and a matching cap emerged; he was powerfully built for his height, but running to fat, with reddish whiskers and eyebrows over eyes flecked with amber, which was the only way he resembled his daughter.

  ‘Miss Howard, may I present Mr James Ferguson, my father-in-law.’

  He swept off the cap. He was expensively dressed, clothes probably from Savile Row, and boots from Lobb, but there was an indefinable air of vulgarity about him, the thrusting red face, the glimmer of the eyes under those sandy brows. He was exaggerated, like the clock tower. He looked what he was, and seemed pleased about it.

  ‘Well ‒ Angus Macdonald’s granddaughter. You bear the stamp of the old man, the way your brother did. I wonder if you’re his match?’

  ‘Perhaps time will tell that, Mr Ferguson. Perhaps we’ll never know. It isn’t a woman’s world yet, is it? ‒ and we’re really not able to compare.’

  ‘Well, you’ve as sharp a tongue as Macdonald. Your brother, now, he was all charm. All charm and talk.’

  I almost choked on my anger. ‘Perhaps I’ll improve, Mr Ferguson. At the time you knew William, life was happier for us all.’

  I saw Gavin’s hand as he held the bridle, the fist clenched into a tight ball. It was as well Ailis wasn’t nervous.

  ‘Mr Ferguson ‒ please remember that Miss Howard has lost both William and her father recently. They were happier times …’

  ‘Och, aye ‒ aye. I know it well. I’ve a rough tongue on me, Miss Howard. Yes, you’ve had sorrow, and I can tell you would sorrow for a fine young brother as William was. Bright, he was, and full of promise, and Angus Macdonald was dreaming again of a future. But you can take your knocks, I can tell. You’re probably as tough as old boots, and it will stand you in good stead. A pity you’re not a boy. Angus Macdonald would have a second chance. But still, a bishop’s daughter … you’ll probably make a good enough match. Someone anxious to have their hands on Cluain ‒’