by Cready, Gwyn
Eight husbands. “So Bobby . . . he was your first husband?”
“No, my second. The first was Davey. A good man, he was, though he drank more than was good for him. Took to his bed with a fever one Hogmany. Never got up.”
Mrs. Brownlow had returned Panna’s hair to a glossy shine and was now weaving it into a series of braids. Panna played with the pins in her hand. “Was it hard for you to remarry? Did you feel like you were abandoning Davey?”
“I mourned him for a year, lass. But a woman’s heart is large. A man can only love one wife. But a woman can love many husbands. I haven’t abandoned Davey. I’ve locked him away. He’s in his own place there, safe and secure.”
“Like a chamber of a nautilus shell.”
Mrs. Brownlow smiled. “Aye, I suppose.”
The safe spaces in one’s memory. Where we preserve those we’ve lost. But unlike a nautilus shell, the spaces aren’t separated by walls. They are connected by doors that one can reopen whenever one needs to.
Mrs. Brownlow ran to fetch an aged hand mirror from the dresser and gave it to Panna. Her hair had been pinned into a loose French roll and decorated them with ropes of tiny braids. “Oh, it’s beautiful. Truly. Thank you.” She turned the mirror and saw that a loopy S had been engraved on the back of it. “Do you think Sorcha would be pleased with the way Jamie has turned out?”
“Oh, aye. Handsome, brave, smart. Of course, he’s always been handsome. Even as a tiny bairn.”
Panna wheeled around. “You knew him as an infant?”
“Shh,” the woman said, glancing toward the door. “You mustn’t tell Hector. I visited Sorcha once when he was but a fat baby. I gave him a turkey bone. Sorcha said it was the first food he held for himself. He sat in front of the fire and gnawed on it for an hour, happy as a pup.”
“But Sorcha died giving birth to Jamie.”
“Oh, no. That was later. I sent Annan’s best surgeon. The one Hector himself used. Paid with my own coin. Not that it did much good.” Mrs. Brownlow sat down next to Panna on the bed. “I also gathered her things when she passed. There wasn’t much. A gown or two I gave to the poorhouse. A trinket box from the earl,” she added disapprovingly. “Three or four books. They’re on the shelf in the wardrobe.”
Panna turned to look but the wardrobe’s doors were closed. “Could I give them to Jamie? I have no other present for him.”
“Aye, and give him the little ark, too. You should have it for your children.”
The morning sun was high in the sky now. The Cumbrian hills looked like emerald cabochons, and Bridgewater’s castle sat like a carved piece of ivory in their midst, the peaked roof of the chapel rising from the design.
“Do you think Jamie’s grandfather regrets what he did?”
“Aye,” Mrs. Brownlow said. “Though I think it’s taken him many years to come to that. And he would not want anyone to know.”
“But people know he built the chapel for her. Or is Jamie the only one?”
“Built the chapel for her?” Mrs. Brownlow laughed. “Oh, no, lass. When that chapel went up, Hector was furious. ‘Who dares to touch my castle?’ Of course, the lands had been taken by the Crown, so he had no basis for the complaint. He thinks the priest sold Sorcha’s jewelry and built it to rub the MacIver’s nose in his wickedness.”
“The priest who cared for Jamie and his mother?”
“Aye.”
“I know Jamie finds great comfort in that chapel.”
“Maybe he’s the one who built it, lass. He’s made a good bit of money on water pumps.”
If he had built it, he certainly had tried to hide that fact. He had railed against his grandfather’s attempt to assuage his guilt by building it.
“Are you ready, lass?” Mrs. Brownlow gestured toward the door.
Panna’s heart leaped in her chest. Had an hour passed already? She lifted the flask and drank.
“Careful, now,” Mrs. Brownlow said. “A little is good. A lot . . . well, let’s just say a lot can be as bad as none. I saw a bride once drink so much whisky she fell asleep in the carriage of one of the wedding guests. She slept all the way to his estate in Glasgow. Awoke with the cock’s crow. And that reminds me: If Jamie tells you the only way to get rid of a cockstand is for you to tend to it, you look him in the eye and tell him you know better.”
Panna wondered which eye she meant.
THIRTY-ONE
BRIDGEWATER SWALLOWED AND TRIED TO CLEAR HIS THROAT. HE found his mouth drier than he’d ever known it. He wished he had his uniform. It didn’t seem right to ask Panna to stand beside him while he wore a dusty, shot-riddled coat. He rubbed his sweating palms on his breeks.
“You look fine.” Hector said. “A groom shouldna outshine the bride.”
“No chance of that, I’m afraid.” Bridgewater wondered where Hector had drummed up a priest on such short notice and if banns would have to be posted, but then he remembered Scotland’s lax marriage laws and realized one of the castle’s blacksmiths could probably perform the ceremony as well as anyone.
“Was the girl relieved?”
Bridgewater felt the blood rise once again on his cheeks. Exactly how much censure was he going to have to endure for a fornication that had not taken place? Had she been relieved? Hardly. She’d agreed, but he’d seen the hesitation in her eyes. And her words had made it clear that whatever they shared, it was not love.
And you say this vow will mean no more to you than it does to me?
“Aye,” Bridgewater said, “I believe she was quite beside herself with joy.”
“As I would expect. You have done quite well financially for a bastard whose father has given you nothing.”
Not to mention a man whose grandfather has denied me what might also be considered mine.
MacIver saw the unspoken sentiment in his eyes. “Aye, well, the time has come for you to claim what is yours.”
“I have no need of your money.”
“Nor do I offer it.”
Bridgewater swallowed. “But if my grandmother had a ring that should have been passed to my mother, I would like to have it.”
The Scot stared, his rheumy eyes appraising the man before him. “Your mother was disinherited. There is nothing of mine or my wife’s that belongs to her—or to you.”
Bridgewater tried to keep the disappointment from showing on his face. He had hoped for something to give to Panna.
“However,” MacIver said wearily, “I know your grandmother would have wanted you to have something. Let me see what I can find.”
He made his way stiffly to the door and said a few words to the guard standing in the hall. When he turned, Bridgewater said, “When are you planning to speak to the clan chiefs?”
“Lower your voice. No one commands me, especially not an English army officer.” MacIver closed the door. “The council begins after our breakfast. You and your bride will join us for that.”
An unpleasant tingle went up his spine. “I cannot be seen here.”
MacIver held up a boney hand. “Dinna fash yourself. A wedding answers nicely. Your superior officers can hardly complain about a man running off to Scotland with his sweetheart to marry. If only that had been the reason you’d brought her,” he added under his breath.
“Even I could have managed an excuse for being found in Scotland,” Bridgewater said with irritation. “Tis being here, in Nunquam, that will get me hanged.”
“Is it a crime for a man to enjoy a wedding breakfast thrown by his grandfather?”
“Where the only guests are the heads of the Lowland clans?”
MacIver shook his head. “You inherited your father’s lack of imagination. ‘The guests, General? My grandfather’s closest friends.’”
Bridgewater rolled his eyes at the suggested explanation and straightened his cuffs. “I think you should tell the clan chiefs that the army has taken some actions that concern you.”
“I do not need advice from a man who was still in a clout when I’d led m
y thirtieth charge. I will keep my own counsel, thank you. I have little enough reason to trust you.”
“I am marrying the girl,” Bridgewater said with steel in his voice. “As you asked.”
“That was not all I asked. Come.” MacIver waved him to his side.
Bridgewater joined him reluctantly.
“Hold out your hand.” MacIver withdrew a blade from his belt.
Bridgewater felt a sickening chill. “Why?”
“Tis time to take your rightful name.”
“I have a name.”
“The name is not yours. Sorcha could not remove the stain of bastardy with a pen and a prayer any more than she could put the earl’s ring on her finger.” He laid his cane against the table and took Bridgewater by the wrist. “Open your hand.”
Bridgewater unclasped his fist, and MacIver said, “Your blood spilt in fire or battle. That is how you become a MacIver.”
The old man raised his blade, its edge sharpened to a gleam.
The door opened, and Panna gasped. “What are you doing?” she cried.
“Panna,” Bridgewater said, “you have not been formally introduced. This is Hector MacIver. My grandfather.”
THIRTY-TWO
THE ENTRANCE OF THE PRIEST AND MRS. BROWNLOW IMMEDIATELY after Bridgewater’s introduction precluded any further activities involving the knife, a turn of events for which Panna was quite grateful. MacIver re-sheathed his blade, though the look he gave Jamie made it clear their tête-à-tête had been halted only temporarily.
“Is this the couple?” asked the priest, a slight man with glasses and a black cassock.
MacIver grunted.
The priest eyed Panna with a businesslike interest. “Did the groom rape her?”
“I certainly hope you don’t think I’d marry a man who raped me,” said Panna, irritated.
Jamie bit back a smile, but the priest, whose attention hadn’t wavered from MacIver’s face, waited.
“Apparently not,” MacIver said.
“‘Apparently not,’” Jamie repeated under his breath and shook his head.
“Was she a virgin?”
“Aye,” Jamie said firmly, and a pained look came over the priest’s face.
Panna, who knew enough to follow Jamie’s lead, tried to look appropriately deflowered.
“Where are your people, lass?”
“Penn’s Woods. My parents are dead.”
“She is under my protection,” Jamie said, giving her a gentle look.
“And this is what you consider protection?”
Jamie’s cheeks colored, and he lowered his eyes.
Panna gave his elbow a reassuring touch, and he patted her hand automatically.
“Do you understand the sanctity of the vows you are about to take?”
The priest had directed this at Jamie, perhaps assuming a woman wouldn’t have the mental capacity to comprehend such a thing or that Jamie would be answering for the both of them.
“Aye,” Jamie said.
“Are you able to promise your fidelity to her, in body and in spirit? Provide her with a home and such protection as you are able to offer?”
The priest imbued the word “protection” with the tiniest note of irony.
“Aye.” Jamie’s voice had grown softer. He looked as if he didn’t quite believe what he was saying—and why should he, after all? He didn’t believe in marriage and had made it clear this performance was for the sake of peace.
“The promises you are about to make, sir, last until the end of time, not a day or two, or until you tire of her and long for another.”
Jamie grimaced. “Aye.”
The poor man was enduring quite a lot of humiliation on behalf of the people of the borderlands, Panna thought. She suspected the beating at Adderly’s hands had been easier.
“Forever, sir,” the man repeated. “Not a day or two.”
“I understand,” Jamie said sharply, which did nothing to endear him to the priest.
“This is your grandson?”
MacIver nodded.
“In your opinion, is he fit to enter into the bounds of marriage?”
MacIver gave Jamie a long look, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek. “As you know, Father, his mother was banished from the family. I have not had the pleasure of making his acquaintance until recently, though I have observed him from afar. He is an able soldier—”
“English?”
“Unfortunately, aye. And a canny investor.”
“He rebuilt Bridgewater Castle,” Panna said.
“He did.” MacIver settled back against the table. Panna could tell his body ached. “With a fine chapel for his beloved mother.”
Jamie twitched with anger, and Panna squeezed his arm.
“He is no more bullheaded than most Englishmen,” MacIver added, “and I have seen one or two glimpses of an almost Scottish sensibility. I am comfortable he will make a decent husband for the girl. In any case, he is clearly besotted.”
It was Panna’s turn to flush. She stole a glance at Jamie, who kept his eyes fixed straight ahead.
The priest nodded, though his face made it clear he was short of satisfied. He adjusted his glasses, opened the book in his hand, and peered at Panna. “I trust you know the man well enough to be sure of your heart?”
“I—” Her tongue seemed to have turned to a wet wad of cotton in her mouth, and all she could do was tighten her grip.
“Tis an ignoble sign, you see, that he could not forestall his desires. A man like that could easily abandon you.”
But it will be I who will leave him in that chapel. “Yes, I am sure of my heart.” She was careful not to look to Jamie, who evidently was not as sure of his own.
“Then you are ready to begin?”
They were the same words her minister at home had said before her wedding to Charlie, and Panna felt a tide of emotion rise in her throat and an uncomfortable prickling in her eyes. “Yes.”
The priest found the page and reluctantly began the vows. But his words were lost in the din of the blood rushing in her ears. She felt light-headed and wondered if she was about to faint. Despite her promise to Jamie and even her own belief, the vow she had spoken seemed to carry enormous power— more than she’d even suspected—and she felt as if she’d collapse underneath the weight.
Perhaps sensing her unsteadiness, Jamie wrapped his arm around her waist.
She didn’t remember responding to anything, though evidently she had, for the priest looked at Jamie and said, “Do you have a ring?”
Jamie shook his head.
The priest sighed and gave Jamie a look that suggested this didn’t surprise him. He was just turning the page when MacIver hobbled up and thrust something into Jamie’s palm.
Jamie reached for Panna’s hand and threaded a ring onto her fourth finger. “With this ring, I thee wed and pledge my troth.”
His hand was shaking, and so was hers.
“May God bless you,” the priest said, and then, just as fast as it had begun, it was over. The priest closed his book and everyone began to move. Mrs. Brownlow, who, unsurprisingly, had been crying, threw her arms around Jamie. The priest offered his handkerchief to Panna, who was stunned to discover she, too, had tears on her cheeks. And MacIver, face softened, offered Jamie his hand in congratulations. Jamie took it and nodded. He looked a bit like a man who had just won an elephant and didn’t quite know what to do with it.
A bell sounded somewhere in the depths of the castle, and MacIver sent Mrs. Brownlow to have a cask of his finest French wine opened so that his breakfast guests could toast the newlyweds.
When Panna looked for Jamie, she found him enduring a lecture from the priest on the advantages of the agápe over éros. MacIver interrupted.
“Leave us,” he said to the priest.
“I was just—”
“Leave us. And take the girl.”
Panna shook her head. “I’m not leaving.”
The priest met MacIver�
�s eye. MacIver made a motion with his hand. The priest scurried out, and MacIver closed the door.
“Do you wish to see the price your husband paid for my cooperation?” he said to her.
Jamie said, “Leave her out of this.”
“What are you going to do to him?” Panna said.
“Listen to that,” MacIver said, drawing his blade again. “Perhaps she’s as besotted as you.”
“It’s all right, Panna,” Jamie said.
“‘Panna,’” MacIver said. “Tis not a name I have heard before.”
“It is short for ‘Pandora,’” Jamie said, and his grandfather chuckled.
“You are a devotee of mythology, I see.”
“My mother was,” Panna said.
“Best take care not to open any boxes of trouble in my house. Your husband can tell you what that will get you.”
He grabbed Jamie’s hand and, like a flash of lightning, drew the blade across his palm. Jamie jerked, and Panna muffled a cry of horror. A bright red line appeared, and MacIver pulled Jamie toward the candle. He held Jamie’s hand high above the flame, letting the bright crimson drip into the flickering orange and sending the hot wax sputtering in every direction. He murmured something in Latin, his head bent and eyes closed.
The blood overflowed the wick’s base, falling in narrow streams of red down the side of the candle. Panna felt nauseous, but Jamie only stared into the face of his grandfather, eyes burning with a fire as bright as the flame’s.
“Swear your oath to the clan,” MacIver commanded.
“I swear my oath.”
MacIver said something more in Latin, then said, “Nunquam obliviscar. Say it. Tis the MacIver motto.”
Jamie pulled his hand away. “I don’t need to say it. I will never forget.”
MacIver smirked. “Then welcome to the family.”
THIRTY-THREE
“HONORED LADIES AND GENTLEMAN,” MACIVER BOOMED AS HE ushered the wedding party into the dining hall, “tis not every day I would welcome an English soldier to our midst.”
The guests quieted instantly, and more than a few made growls of complaint. Panna, who was still in a daze, felt all eyes turn toward her and Jamie.