The Lady of the Lakes

by Josi S. Kilpack

  Everything was coming together, but Walter was not sure he could truly believe it until the ring in his pocket was settled upon Charlotte’s finger and God and the law proclaimed them husband and wife. Through all the weeks of separation, he had feared every day that Charlotte might change her mind.

  Walter left Lenore with the groom and asked that he give the horse extra attention due to the weather. The prolonged time in the saddle amplified Walter’s limp, but he hoped the walk to the door would loosen it some. He exited the barn and hunched against the rain as he made his way toward the front of the house. A hand on his arm brought him up short—had he neglected some instruction for the groom?

  He turned, then froze for a reason other than the weather when he saw Charlotte looking up at him beneath the hood of her gray cape.

  “I saw you come,” she said simply. She kept her hand on his arm and turned to the back entrance of the house.

  He gladly followed her escort.

  “Coffee,” she called out as they passed through the blessedly warm kitchen. “And cake, please, in the drawing room.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” a kitchen maid said.

  Once in the drawing room, Charlotte clucked over his coat—soaked through—and helped him out of his boots. She dragged a chair to the fire and asked a footman to fetch some blankets, which he did. Charlotte covered Walter with a dry blanket and scolded him for not being attentive to his health. She shook her head at the state of his stockings.

  “I’ve a dry suit of clothes in my saddlebag,” he said by way of argument. He reached out and took her hand with his nearly frozen one. “But should I catch my death, I am pleased to have seen you before I depart this earth.”

  She pulled her hand from his grasp and sighed. “This is not the time for your romantic fancies,” she said. “Do you so love the idea of my standing beside your casket in my wedding gown?”

  He grinned at her and grabbed her hand again, this time bringing it to his cold lips.

  Charlotte attempted to pull back, but he pulled her forward instead and upset her balance enough that she fell into his lap. He quickly took advantage of the opportunity to kiss her lips, her nose, each cheek. The fight she put up was for show only; she could have broken away if she’d truly tried.

  “I have missed you,” he said, brushing the hair from her forehead. “I am sorry I was so delayed.”

  “I am glad you’ve come,” Charlotte said, kissing him back. She shifted off his lap and pulled another chair alongside his. She sat and then took his hand and began to rub it between her own. “The longer you were gone, the more I feared you were not coming.”

  “Nothing would have kept me away, and seeing you again has revived my hopes. Distance is no friend to a lovesick man.”

  She smiled. “I sent a note to the vicar this morning that we would reschedule when—”

  “What?” Walter said, lifting his eyebrows. “You canceled the ceremony?”

  “You were not here,” Charlotte said. “And now you need to recover from your journey.”

  Walter shook his head. “I shall write the vicar back and tell him we shall be there at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, just as we planned. I have already confirmed our rooms at Gilsland and ordered a carriage to take us there. Now that we are together, I shan’t let anything stand in the way of making you my wife. Certainly not a bit of rain.”

  She furrowed her eyebrows, giving him that exasperated look that she so often bestowed upon him. “You are a very strange man.”

  “But I shall be a very good husband.” He leaned across the chairs and kissed her. She allowed only one before standing and straightening her dress. “I have letters for you,” he said.

  “Letters?” She put her hands on her hips and scowled at him. “The best part of having you here is knowing I don’t have to put up with your flowery letters any longer. You employ entirely too many ‘musts,’ Walter. It makes you seem quite obsessive.”

  Walter laughed. “These letters are not from me.” He reached into the inside pocket of his coat and withdrew a packet. “They are from my family and closest friends in Edinburgh. I have rented us a house on George Street, not too far from my family but not too close either. My family hopes we’ll join them for Hogmanay, and my friend Miss Cranston hopes to have you over for tea soon thereafter.” He held the packet out to Charlotte, who looked at it with equal parts eagerness and hesitation.

  “Hogmanay?”

  “To celebrate the New Year. You’ll learn quickly that in addition to our remarkable hospitality, we Scots enjoy any excuse for a celebration.”

  “I hope there will be no party to welcome us,” Charlotte said, taking the packet and counting the letters—six in all. “I won’t know how to act with people I don’t know.”

  “As I told them,” Walter said. “We shall settle ourselves in, then have a family dinner on the thirtieth and Hogmanay the next day. One step at a time.” He nodded to the letters. “They are excited to meet you, Charlotte, and eager to embrace you.”

  She blinked quickly at rising tears, and he rose from his chair. He wrapped his arms around her, keeping the blanket between them so she would not end up as wet as he was, and kissed her forehead. “You will belong to all of us, Mrs. Scott, and we shall all find our way.”

  “Dank you,” she whispered, holding the letters against her chest. “You have given me more than I could have ever hoped for.”

  “As you have given me,” Walter said.

  How certain he had once been that Mina would be his only chance at happiness, and how juvenile that felt to him now. His heart had never beat so true, and his mind had never felt so clear. Today, Charlotte was in his arms; tomorrow, she would be his wife; and within a week, she would be a Scotswoman. A Scot—and a Scott—to the end of their days.

  Ashiestiel, Scotland

  May 9, 1810

  I was intent on my work when I felt her familiar hand brush against the back of my neck. I looked up to see my Charlotte—as lovely as ever, though tired tonight.

  “Wattie would like his father to give him a good night kiss,” she said as she continued by.

  I let out an exaggerated sigh to reflect the happy torture of parental duties that besieged me, then grabbed Charlotte’s hand before she could move too far away. With a quick tug she was on my lap, where I quickly wrapped my arms around her wriggling form and planted a firm and intentional kiss on her lips. “I should save my kisses for his mother.”

  Charlotte laughed, then kissed me once more before pushing out of my arms. “You have plenty, I am sure.” She straightened and was brushing out the skirt of her dress when she paused, leaning closer to the papers lying across my desk. “You are finished?”

  I looked from her to the papers, unable to suppress my pride at what I felt was my best work to date. “Nearly,” I said. “There is one line that is vexing me, I’m afraid.” I pushed up from my chair. “Perhaps while I attend our boy, you can give it a read and help me find the solution.”

  She nodded, then took the chair I had vacated.

  Little Walter—my namesake—wanted a story after the good night kiss, so I told him a tale about a witch and a bear, staying a few minutes longer than I’d planned to. I wanted to give Charlotte time to read the poem I had finished. She could be a harsh critic, and I needed time to prepare myself.

  At the conclusion of my tale, I kissed my sleepy son on the forehead, overwhelmed with gratitude that he, and his brother and sisters, were now well. It had been a frightening winter as one after the other had fallen victim to a fever, which rendered them listless and gasping for weeks. The recovery had been slow, as was often the case in cold weather, but Charlotte and I had been as attentive as two parents could be, and thanked the Good Lord that each of them made it through.

  Such strain had taken a toll on my writing, which I had found a place for around my job as Sherriff of
Selkirkshire. I hoped to one day give up all other manner of employment, but it only took pulling Wattie’s covers to his chin and peeking into the girls’ room to remind me where my priorities lay. Where they would always lie.

  If my investments paid off with Ballantine, and if my writing continued to find reception, I might one day live by my pen, but it was not today, and I was content to fit my creative process around the other things that mattered. Perhaps it was not very romantic of me to have made such practical decisions, but as I had learned, romance can only take a man so far.

  I put both my hands upon Charlotte’s slim shoulders when I came up on her from behind and bent down to kiss the tender skin at the base of her neck. She shivered, and I smiled at her reaction. Thirteen years and the passion still burned bright.

  “Well,” I said, moving around her to sit in the only other chair in the room. “What have I gotten wrong?”

  She looked up at me, her eyes a little wide. “Is this the poem you began when we went to Loch Katrine?”

  I nodded, glad she recognized the place from the trip we had taken with our oldest daughter, Sophia, last summer. The scenery had imprinted itself into my mind, creating the framework for a story I hoped would find a place in the hearts of readers. Revisiting the place in this work had brought it to life for me all over again, and it was gratifying to know that Charlotte, my first audience, felt the same. “Do you like it?”

  “Walter,” she said, and I braced myself. “Walter, I love it.”

  I felt my eyebrows shoot upward as I straightened in my chair. “Do you really?” Charlotte did not hand out such compliments easily.

  “It is mesmerizing,” she said, looking back at the paper. “I love this line, ‘Those who such simple joys have known, are taught to prize them when they’re gone.’” She looked up at me and smiled, that beautiful smile I had known so long, it seemed, and yet struck me anew every time. “I believe this is the best work you have ever done. And you will call it The Lady of the Lake?”

  “I’ve had good luck in lake country,” I said, giving her a wink, which caused her to roll her eyes as I knew it would. I reached for the paper. “That last line, though. It is not quite right. I think—”

  She pulled the paper away, causing me to meet her eyes in confusion. “It is perfect,” she said. “Don’t ruin it by returning again and again to one word.”

  “Och,” I said, putting a hand to my chest as though I were wounded. “The brilliance of a true poet is to return again and again to one word until he has it right.”

  “You have it right already.” We held one another’s eyes for a moment, then she returned the paper to its place, lining it up with the edge of the desk. “It is your greatest work, Walter. I am so very proud of you.”

  The words wove through me—bone and sinew—as I looked at the woman I loved, the woman I had made a life with. We had four children, a fine house, good friends, and nice things, but above all we had a friendship that I believed to be at the root of every other success I knew.

  On the days I took myself too seriously, she laughed at me, yet the times I treated my ambitions with flippancy, she was the first to call me out. In every aspect of my life she made me better—she made me whole—and I had watched her grow and blossom in the same way.

  “Not my greatest accomplishment,” I amended. “That would be having convinced you into falling in love with me.”

  She smiled and shook her head, the dark hair now sprinkled with gray that looked well on her.

  I stretched my hand across the wooden desktop, and she brought her own hand to meet it. “He seemed to walk and speak of love,” I murmured, quoting my own work to her. I didn’t care if they were out of context or not; my words always felt brighter and stronger when I spoke them to Charlotte. “She listened with a blush and sigh, his suit was warm, his hopes were high. He sought her yielded hand to clasp.”

  She sighed dramatically and batted her eyelashes. “I’m not sure I can make myself blush, so you might need to be content with the sigh alone.”

  I stood but kept her hand in mine as I moved around the desk and pulled her to her feet. “I believe I might be able to draw a blush to your cheeks, Mrs. Scott,” I said. “If I tried very, very hard.”

  She cocked a single eyebrow. “Do you think so?” But it was she who led me from the room, down the hall, and to the bedchamber we shared. The winds of youthful fancy were nothing against the gales of adoration that bound me to this woman.

  True love’s the gift which God has given

  To man alone beneath the heaven:

  It is not fantasy’s hot fire,

  Whose wishes, soon as granted, fly;

  It liveth not in fierce desire,

  With dead desire it doth not die;

  It is the secret sympathy,

  The silver link, the silken tie,

  Which heart to heart, and mind to mind

  In body and in soul can bind.

  —“Lay of the Last Minstrel”

  Mr. and Mrs. Scott settled into rooms on George Street in Edinburgh shortly after their marriage. Charlotte may have been born in France and raised in England, but she lived most of her life as a Scotswoman.

  Walter and Charlotte had five children. Their first child, a boy, was born a year after their marriage, but he died shortly thereafter. A year after that, in 1799, Charlotte Sophia—called Sophia to distinguish her from her mother—was born healthy and strong. Their son Walter was born in 1801, Anne in 1803, and Charles in 1805. Walter and Charlotte took a great deal of joy and pride in their children and baptized them into the Episcopalian Church.

  In 1818, Walter appealed to the royal family of England for permission to search Edinburgh Castle for the Honours of Scotland, the Scottish crown jewels, which had been lost more than a century before. Walter had been researching Scottish history and believed he knew where they might have been hidden back in the seventeenth century. Permission was granted, and Walter did indeed discover the crown jewels, for which he was knighted in 1822. From that day on he was known as Sir Walter Scott, Baronet, and Charlotte was known as Lady Scott.

  Though he achieved fame and fortune through his writing, he maintained his role as Sherriff of Selkirkshire (which he had held since 1799) for many years in order to make sure his family situation remained secure.

  Charlotte was excessively proud of Walter and very supportive, but she did not insert herself into that part of his life beyond entertaining his numerous friends and colleagues. She was a skilled hostess, a doting mother, and a beloved wife, but she maintained her practical air, which I came to see as a grounding force in his life.

  In 1810, a friend of Walter’s, Lady Abercorn, was asked if Scott had ever been in love. She shared Walter’s response to this that he had once been in love, but “Mrs. Scott’s match and mine was of our own making and proceeded from the most sincere affection on both sides, which has rather increased than diminished during twelve years marriage. But it was something short of love in all its prefer, which I suspect one only feels once in their lives. Folks who have been nearly drowned in bathing rarely venture a second time out of their depth.”

  Some biographies are critical of Walter’s relationship to Charlotte, claiming that Williamina was his only true love, yet his own words, and his success—which ignited after he married Charlotte—speak against that. In my study of Mr. and Mrs. Scott, I found much to admire about them and the life they made together; they were excellent partners, friends, and parents. There is a difference between first loves and best loves. Walter had both and, to me, that is what his response truly means.

  In 1825, a nationwide bank crisis caused the failure of Ballentyne Printing, of which Walter was the chief financial investor. The debts of the company were significant, and its loss began Walter’s financial decline, which, sadly, coincided with Charlotte’s failing health. Charlotte passed away on May
11, 1826, at the age of fifty-eight, and Walter said, “I wonder what I will do with the large portion of thoughts, which were hers for thirty years. I suspect they will be hers yet for a long time. . . . She is sentient and conscious of my emotions somewhere—somehow; where we cannot tell; how we cannot tell—yet would I not at this moment renounce the mysterious yet certain hope that I shall see her in a better world, for all that this world can give me.”

  Walter never forgot the heartbreak of Williamina refusing him and often utilized the theme of unrequited love in his literary works. Perhaps this is a lesson that the hardest experiences in life often teach us a great deal and that no experience is wasted on a writer.

  When Williamina died in 1810, at the age of thirty-four, Walter expressed regret for her early death, and yet hers was the only friendship of his life that was ever dropped. When he learned of William Forbes’s death in 1829, he said, “In the whole course of life our friendship has been uninterrupted as his kindness has been unwearied.” It seemed Walter could forgive William for stealing Williamina’s heart, but it was harder to let go of the pain Williamina’s change of affection caused him.

  Walter died as Sir Walter Scott Baronet in 1832, after several months of illness and bouts of dementia. He is buried by Charlotte at Dryburgh Abby near Abbotsford, the mansion he built along the Tweed River after finding literary success. He had put the property in his son’s name, which kept it from being lost when his investments failed. His works were popular in his lifetime and have only continued to rise in popularity and acclaim in the years since his death. He maintains a legacy as the man who gave Scotland back her history.

  In conclusion, I want to draw attention to the quote I used in the opening of this book, which, I feel, reflects Walter’s opinion on the matter of First Love versus Best Love:

  “Scarce one person out of twenty marries his first love, and scarce one out of twenty of the remainder has cause to rejoice at having done so. What we love in those early days is generally rather a fanciful creation of our own than a reality. We build statues of snow, and weep when they melt.”—Sir Walter Scott Baronet, 1820