And to-night I would wear that Mandarin robe, before the man who was to be my own King, and it might remind him that others gave their lives in distant and hard places, for the establishment of which he would be head.
Still cradling the cat, I went to the door, and half-way down the spiral stair. ‘Morag ‒ Morag, quickly!’
I had to call several times before she heard me. She came running. By that time I had found the robe, hung with my other clothes, but neglected. I was still holding the cat when she came into the room.
‘Is the range still hot?’
‘The range is always hot. But why‒’ Her gaze fell on the dress on the bed. ‘God Almighty! ‒ what has happened? I laid it here fresh and lovely, mistress ‒ och, that dratted cat! He has sneaked in here when I was not paying attention. He is forever sneaking in here, damn him! ‒ get him out of here, mistress! He was probably taken about because something was lain on the bed, where he usually sleeps. Och, the lovely dress ‒ the dress! What shall we do? It cannot be worn. And you have nothing else to wear. You cannot go … Och, the shame. You cannot go!’
‘I will go. Will you iron this, Morag. Can you heat the iron and press the skirt and the sleeves. Very gently. The silk is the finest. It must be handled very gently … a warm iron, only.’
She took it, held it up, and her face registered her disgust. ‘You mean, mistress, that you will wear this heathen garment before His Royal Highness. It isn’t fitting. It is outlandish ‒ almost an insult.’
‘I will wear it, Morag. Will you iron it for me, or will I do it myself? Either way, I mean to wear it.’
‘Very well, then, but it is a disgrace …’
‘Morag!’
She turned her head away slowly. ‘Yes, mistress.’
As she reached the door I called to her. ‘Morag, do you want to take the cat? If he has done damage ‒’
She flung the words over her shoulder. ‘I would not touch the dratted animal. He is a fiend!’
And she was gone, her heels making an unaccustomed noisy clatter on the stair. I continued to stroke the cat. I knew he had had nothing to do with the dress upon the bed.
I went downstairs when I heard the trap come to the front door. A strange calm had descended upon me; the worst had happened now. After this, the rest of the evening would seem anti-climactic. Here I was, going off to be presented to the Prince in what surely must be the strangest dress he would ever see worn within the whole country. How different my face had looked above the high collar ‒ I had brushed my hair very smooth, and had not bothered with the curling tongs; it was straight and shining, dark, and caught into a low knot at the back. I had done it that way so that my hair would not offend the gown, nor one make the other absurd. An ivory Chinese fan with a red ribbon hung from my wrist; the long white gloves that were meant to cover bare arms were lost in the wide falling sleeves. I thought of the worn old lady who had given this gleaming silk as a present, and wished that she could have known in whose presence it would be worn.
They knew downstairs ‒ all of them. Oddly, the cat had stayed with me all the time I had dressed and had actually sat upon the table while I had done my hair, as if he did not want to leave the comfort of my presence. I set him down now outside the door, and he went before me down the stairs. They were waiting below in the big hall ‒ my grandfather, Mairi Sinclair, and Morag ‒ those two standing by the archway that led to the kitchen passage.
Mairi Sinclair spoke first. ‘If the cat has done damage he shall be punished. And I shall refund the money for the gown.’ The words came in a nervous rush, as if she had rehearsed them, and that was all she would say.
‘It would be senseless to punish him, Mistress Sinclair. If he did damage, it could only be because he was upset by something, or frightened. He has been many times in the room, and never before touched anything. And as for the dress ‒ I don’t care about it. I was almost a child when it was made. I am not a child any longer and don’t care for little girl’s dressed-up clothes.’
Mairi Sinclair did not answer. In the dimness of the heavy archway I could see no change in her expression ‒ only the clenching red hands before the black gown. The cat rubbed against her legs.
I had come near to my grandfather now; he was scrutinising my face. ‘No tears?’
‘I save my tears for things that matter. I am decently dressed ‒ if strangely. His Royal Highness can be shocked ‒ or amused ‒ as he pleases. He can’t possibly know what it cost a peasant woman in China to give me this gown. I am proud to wear it.’
His old face creased along its seams. It was impossible to know what his thoughts were, if he cared at all for the destroyed gown, or for the tiny Chinese woman who had given me this one. But he nodded, suddenly, as if he had made a decision.
‘There is something else which I hope you will be proud to wear.’
He moved to the long hall table. ‘Come here, lass.’
I went to him, and he had taken in his hands a very finely woven long piece of silk tartan of the Macdonalds of Clanranald. He handled it with great care as he hung it about my body, looping it under my right arm, and arranging it so that it was gathered on the left shoulder, and fell in a long swath down my back. ‘It was woven by your great-grandmother, Christina, and worn by her on a very few occasions. And here…’ He was pinning it in place on my left shoulder with a silver brooch which looked as if it had just come from being polished by Morag or Mairi Sinclair. He showed it to me before he thrust it into the doth. ‘The Clanranald crest badge, Kirsty.’ He translated the motto from the Gaelic. ‘My hope is constant in thee.’ And now he was bringing a second, and this one I recognised. ‘This was her own, and she brought it to Inishfare with her. The badge of the Campbells of Cawdor ‒ you have the right to wear both. And if the Hanoverian prince has any knowledge of his kingdom, he will know the Clanranald tartan, and he might remember that it was on Clanranald land that Bonnie Prince Charlie first raised his standard in Scotland, and it was on Clanranald land in the Isles he had his last refuge before leaving Scotland forever. I wonder will this foreign prince know so much? ‒ I doubt it. But you may wear these with pride and honour, and know that you are as good as any in that company.’
It was then for the first time I felt the prick of tears behind my eyes as he escorted me to the trap where Ross MacKinnon and his wife waited, and handed me into it. But he did not stand by the door of Cluain to watch us go. That was not his way.
The candles were glowing, and the electric light was putting on its show in the rooms of Ballochtorra when I arrived, although the northern twilight was hours away. The Sunday Lad disgraced himself at the door as I went, unescorted, up the steps. Wilson, the butler, ushered me in, harassed, I thought, by all those strange faces of the footmen behind him, those who had never been at Ballochtorra before. As The Sunday Lad moved off around to the stables, a stable-lad rushed out to sweep up his leavings. I gave the monkey fur, sniffed at, into the hands of a woman I had never seen before, and for a moment lingered in front of a mirror in the vastly enlarged and transformed cloakroom. I smoothed my hair automatically, but for the first time I saw myself full length in the pier glass. How absurd it looked ‒ that shining, luxuriant Chinese robe, with the tartan sash woven in its sombre Clanranald colours. But when I moved, the prunus blossom embroidered on the gown caught the light, as did the silver of the two brooches. I could see the shock, near outrage, in the face of the woman who attended the room.
In the drawing-room there were perhaps thirty people already gathered. My name was announced, and Gavin came hurrying forward. He took my hand. ‘Pay no attention to it all,’ he said. ‘It’s all a joke. We’ll laugh about it some day.’ And then, almost as an afterthought, he added quickly, ‘How lovely you look …’
But he had to turn away, as the names of the next arrivals were announced. I was alone, except that a footman was immediately at my side, with a silver tray. It looked like champagne, the pale, straw-coloured liquid that I had never tasted
. ‘Thank you ‒ no …’ And then the need for experiment went beyond my grandfather’s cautionings. ‘Well, yes …’ He lowered the tray slightly, so that I might take a glass. Then I looked around, and saw that very few other women held a glass, and those who did were mostly elderly, seated, and heavily surrounded by men. I stood alone, glass in hand, and there was no one to talk to, no one who looked as if they would ever talk to me.
A few more people arrived. I had left it rather late, I thought. ‘Lord and Lady …’ They looked at home, familiar, Scottish probably, but already acquainted with the Prince. ‘Major James McCulloch-Johnstone …’ Perhaps that was the odd man invited to balance my presence. How Margaret must have searched to find a single man who was acceptable. Still no one came and spoke to me.
Without any words there was a kind of tremble suddenly through the company. The footmen disappeared, and the glasses as well ‒ at least for the time being. As if at a command, the company rose to its feet, the elderly ladies helped, but once there, assuming attitudes of such rigidity that I thought they might never be able to let go. There I stood, with the glass still in my hand, no footman in sight, no tray to receive it. People were forming in a line down one side of the long room. I found myself squeezed out, and hurried along behind them searching for a space. And then I remembered the glass in my hand. I left it on a table, that slowly bubbling champagne, still untasted. Then, almost two-thirds down the room I found a space in the line. The doors had not yet opened, but everyone was ready.
‘His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales!’
I was craning forward to see him, perhaps the only one of that whole line, who all seemed frozen. Was it protocol to pretend that he had not yet arrived until he was level with one? The ladies first in the line were curtseying, and the men bowing. There came at that moment into my mind all the thousand forms of Chinese etiquette which I had never mastered. That stout, august figure was moving slowly along the line, nodding to those who were already known to him, and members of the house party, pausing to acknowledge the introduction by Margaret Campbell of those invited to meet him that evening. She moved beside him in a kind of haze of gold, the gown, the skin, the hair ‒ no other colour but the fire of emeralds at her throat and ears; but she could have done without jewels completely ‒ she was a kind of shimmer of beauty herself. They were almost level, Gavin a pace or two behind; and then my legs shaped themselves into the half-remembered complexities of the curtsey, but somehow I couldn’t get low enough.
‘Sir ‒ may I present Miss Christina Howard.’
He had actually paused, and my knees trembled, and I thought I was going to crash over in front of him. Was I supposed to rise? ‒ I didn’t know. I stayed as I was. There was a moment of absolute silence, and although I didn’t dare lift my eyes, I could feel his gaze fastened on me. But it wasn’t me, it was the dress.
‘How unusual …’ My eyelids flicked up, and I met his look fully. I could feel myself flush with something near anger, but this was one place I could make no retort. Then, astonishingly, the soft, plump finger was under my chin, tilting my face upwards, almost causing me to lose that precarious balance. ‘How charming …’ The words melted me; I could feel myself begin to smile with gratitude. Did one smile at Royalty?
Margaret was saying something in a low tone dose to his ear. He was nodding. ‘Ah, yes … our dear Bishop’s daughter. So tragic … he had done so much good for China.’
I knew my father had never met the Prince in his life, and the Prince could not know that my father considered that the Christians had done little, if any good, for China, in all the years they had laboured there ‒ and that thought pained him more than any kind of death. But the words were well meant, and to console me. All I could think of was that my knees wouldn’t hold me in that position much longer. Was I expected to reply?
Apparently not. The Prince and Margaret moved on, and then Gavin’s gaze was on me as I rose stiffly. I had the overwhelming conviction that he knew what I had been thinking. In a flash I was suddenly at one with my grandfather, knowing that I should never have come, angry that this unknown man however distinguished, should claim some knowledge of my father, should presume to patronise me, even if he had only meant to be kind to this oddly dressed female. The gratitude vanished. I was done with curtseying and posturing; I wished I were back by the fire at Cluain. And somehow Gavin understood all this.
The rest of the evening was a kind of torture. As I suspected, I was taken into dinner by that lone man, Major James McCulloch-Johnstone. He made conversation for the requisite amount of time, all about things that I didn’t know anything of ‒ his regiment, his family, which I had to assume was distinguished, his guns. Did I ride? ‒ did I collect anything special? ‒ did I know the Lovats? ‒ had I heard that John Singer Sargent was to paint Lady Campbell’s portrait this corning winter? He was making an effort, because for some reason the Prince had chosen to single me out, to call me charming. I heard my tight little replies; remembering Angus Macdonald, I refused all the wines; I was angry and lonely ‒ so terribly lonely. Gavin was far away down the table, and only now at Cluain would the lamps and candles begin to be lighted. There was no waste at Cluain, and here the twisted silver candelabra were placed every three feet along that enormous table, and there was more food placed on the table, and toyed with, than would have fed one of my father’s mission houses for a month. I decided then that I must be very like my grandfather; I loved abundance, I loathed waste. The hungry energy of those Macdonald ancestors scratching a living from their bare Western Isle was eating at my bones and heart. I counted this moment, this night of being complimented and flattered by a prince, as the moment when I received my identity, I became a Scot, and a Macdonald. A kind of fierce pride stiffened my backbone then, and when McCulloch-Johnstone finally gave up on such unpromising material, and my left-hand neighbour, an Englishman who seemed to have a title but whose name I couldn’t remember, began to talk to me, I gave him little chance. I found myself launched into a kind of mad diatribe on the barley crop, and whisky, and even ‒ how ill-bred he must have thought it ‒ the selling of whisky. I could see the raised eyebrows, the long face grow longer.
‘And tell me, Miss … er … Miss Howard, what did you do with your time in China?’
‘In China? ‒ oh, one mostly watches people die. You know ‒ the usual thing ‒ revolutions and beheadings, and people dropping in the streets of starvation. Yes, one sees a lot of people die in China.’
He was unutterably shocked. I could see by his face that he thought I was in this company by some terrible mistake. In another minute I might begin to talk about votes for women. He turned away hastily, and I sat in silence for the rest of the meal.
And he was right ‒ it was a terrible mistake that I had come. The interminable meal dragged on, course after course. The flame of the candles swam before my eyes; down the table James Ferguson nodded to me, his face flushed with wine and triumph. Was this, perhaps, his supreme triumph? ‒ had he ever known a moment of victory in business that equalled this social exultation? His daughter ‒ clothed in silk and emeralds and her own beauty, hostess at a table with the Prince of Wales at her side. From this time on he could only wait for the coronet of a marchioness for his daughter and the courtesy title of an earl for his grandson. Was there anything else he wanted? ‒ would he then be satisfied? From him I looked down the length of the table to Gavin. He sat quite still, talking to neither of the ladies beside him; his face wore that look of weary detachment I had marked the first time I had seen him. He was staring at his wife, and there was no triumph in that gaze. I read a kind of stern sadness, controlled as if he almost could not bear what he saw. But what did he see?
The dinner was over at last, and the ladies withdrew. If possible this was even worse. Margaret led us upstairs; in passing, she smiled at me. It was that same radiant smile she always had, guileless as a child’s. She seemed almost to be trying to say to me that this was no different from any other visi
t I had made to Ballochtorra, and that we would gossip about it later over the tea cups. But now she had more demanding, difficult guests than me to deal with, and I would understand. I did understand, but it did not make it any easier for me to wait my turn at the pier glass, to see once again the strangeness of the garments I wore. The sheer size of the flounces and ruffles about me, the spilling over of powdered bosoms above the tightly corseted waists, the dazzle of diamonds and emeralds nearly as big as Margaret’s, the glow of rubies even more precious, cloyed my senses. There was a heavy perfume on the air, the tangible scent of money and rank and privilege. It wasn’t envy I felt, only a kind of disgust with myself for ever having felt pleased to be invited for this occasion. In the midst of it all I suddenly thought of Callum, and a kind of wholeness came back upon me. I loved, and I loved the right kind of man. I thought of how his lips would have curled in half-laughter at the sight of us all herding about. It made me want to laugh too. I almost did when I overheard, as I was surely meant to, the remark of one woman to another as we passed on our way back to the drawing-room to await the gentlemen. ‘I did not know, did you, my dear Lady Amelia, that it was meant to be a costume ball. How novel! ‒ very droll ‒ a Chinese Scot.’
A few of the men joined us later, after the port had gone round. The new billiard room was waiting for the Prince, and in a smaller room adjoining, card tables had been set up. The Prince did not care to dance any longer, they said; no one was impolite enough to add that it was probably because he was too stout. But in the gallery above the main hall a discreet orchestra was playing, well screened by potted palms. I sat by myself in the drawing-room; none of the other ladies spoke to me and I suppose they thought it odd that I was there alone. I didn’t care. I would just have to wait out the hours until it was permitted to leave. How did one leave when the guest of honour was staying in the house? What had the invitation cards said ‒ ‘Carriages at Three a.m.’? The Sunday Lad would have eaten his head off in the stable by then, and the Ross MacKinnons beginning to yawn over the food in the servants’ hall. Since the servants were seated in accordance with the rank of the master, then the MacKinnons would be placed very low indeed. But they would claim, and rightly, that they were not servants at all.
A Falcon for a Queen Page 24