The door to her studio opened and Douglas appeared. She turned her head to look at him, but said nothing, presuming he had only come to tease her about something. He walked over to her, and viewed her handiwork. He whistled.
“So that’s what you’ve been up to these past weeks,” he said.
“Yes,” she replied simply.
Douglas stepped back a few paces and Sophy steeled herself for his cutting remarks. “I quite like it,” he said.
Sophy’s mouth dropped open. “You what?”
Douglas laughed. “Do you think I only come here to insult you?”
“Given the past, yes, I do,” said Sophy, a touch of acid in her voice.
Douglas looked a bit shamefaced. “It is not that I don’t like your paintings, you know,” he confided. “It is just that I—well, perhaps I am a bit envious. You seem to know so exactly what it is you want, while I—I seem to be the sort of man you despise, interested only in horses, angling, and how many capes are on his greatcoat.”
Sophy turned to him in surprise. “I never meant you when I said those things,” she protested.
Douglas shrugged. “Did you not? It seemed that way.”
“But—but you are not like those other men,” said Sophy. “You are—well, you are extremely annoying at times, but you have a great many interests. Did I not find you reading Cato in the library the other day?”
“You mustn’t tell any of my friends that!” said Douglas hastily.
Sophy grinned. “You see? You are not like them. You are a kind, sweet, boy—I mean man,” she said hastily, seeing Douglas start to frown. “You will grow into someone like Francis, or father—someone who people love, and cherish, and take their troubles to, because they know you will listen.”
Douglas tugged at his ear, embarrassed. “I can aspire to nothing more than to be like Papa, or Francis, or Ranulf.”
Sophy colored. “Yes, or Ranulf,” she said shortly.
Douglas stepped closer to the painting, seemingly unaware of her discomfort. “It’s jolly good,” he said. “I don’t think you’ve ever done anything quite like it before.”
“Thank you.” Sophy tried to see it through her brother’s eyes. For some reason, despite it being such a large canvas, she felt that it was surprisingly intimate.
“I just wonder why you put yourself and Ranulf in it,” continued Douglas, his voice puzzled.
“What?”
Douglas jumped at her forbidding tone. “Don’t yell at me. I just said I was curious as to why you and Ranulf are in it.”
“We aren’t!” Sophy glared at him.
“You aren’t?’” Douglas’ brow furrowed. He raised a hand and pointed at the man. “I realize they are far away, but he looks a great a deal like Ranulf—tall, lean and very dark—while she—his hand moved to indicate the woman, “seems to look like you—short, with brown ringlets.”
“I—I didn’t mean any such thing,” protested Sophy. “They are—just people, they aren’t meant to signify anybody.”
“Oh, I see,” Douglas didn’t sound convinced, and Sophy realized he was humoring her. “No doubt I’m wrong. After all, I am not a painter.”
“You certainly aren’t!”
Douglas shrugged. “As you say, sister dear. Well, I’ll be off. Mind you don’t hang about here too long. Mama will want you to be ready when the villagers arrive. I know there’s a lot of snow out there, but I don’t think any of them will wish to miss the wassail.”
Sophy nodded, staring at the painting. “I’ll be there,” she said.
Douglas cast her a dubious look and then put a brotherly arm around her, kissing her on the cheek. “Happy Christmas, Sophy,” he said.
“What?” Sophy turned to him, surprised. “Thank you, Douglas. You too.”
Douglas left the room, leaving Sophy to stare at her painting. She realized with a start that what Douglas had seen was true. The man, desperately reaching out to rescue the woman in peril from the rushing water, looked very much like Ranulf. His hair was dark, his figure elegant and strong, and, though it too far away to be seen, she knew in her heart that his eyes were a deep golden brown. The woman, reaching out to him, looked very much like her, petite, with a trim but rounded figure and a head of glossy brown hair. She sat down abruptly on a stool, gaping up at the canvas.
Chapter 30
Sophy stood a little apart from the crowd gathered in Glencairn’s drawing room, a wistful look on her face. The carolers had come, as they did each year, making their way through the snow to stand on the terrace and sing. It was one of her favorite Christmas traditions; she could not remember a time when Christmas Eve had not ended this way, with the sound of voices lifted in song, and then refreshments in the Great Hall, with the villagers and the Learmouths talking and laughing, remembering past days and looking to the next spring.
She watched as Douglas talked with Mr. Starrett, his expression attentive, though she felt quite sure he was once again telling her brother the story about his sheep dog. A little farther away her father and stepmother spoke with one of the tenant farmers and his wife. Huge wrought metal sconces containing torches lit the vast space from high up the walls, while the Yule log, which had required three cursing footmen to push into the hearth, burned brightly, sparks dancing as they shot up the chimney. Voluminous ropes of pine boughs and holly branches bright with berries were strung around the walls, and ran through the spandrels of the hammer-beamed ceiling. Trestle tables had been set up in the hall with sweetmeats laid out on the Glencairn sterling, and a huge punchbowl filled with wassail at the center of the table. It was so familiar, and so loved, but she felt somehow apart from it this year.
Sophy took a sip of wassail from the cup she held in her hands and turned to look out the window. The snow continued to fall, and she wondered at the determination that had brought the villagers to Glencairn that night. Tradition was strong in many hearts, she reflected. She found herself wondering what Christmas at Spaethness might be like, and what Ranulf was doing. She could picture him standing in the hall, greeting his tenants, or entertaining his neighbors. What would it be like to be there with him, and then, when the company had left, to go upstairs—she broke off the thought hastily.
With a determined air, Sophy walked to the table, nodding at and greeting acquaintances, tenants and servants on her way, before refilling her cup. She paused a moment, feeling strangely uncomfortable in her own home and finally, with a quick glance around, slipped out the door into the passageway. It was quieter there, though she could still hear the chatter of the company, and she paused for a moment, enjoying the peace. Then, feeling a touch of guilt, she picked up a branch of candles from a nearby table and wandered away, sipping at her wassail, with no particular destination in mind. She could hear the wind blowing against the ancient strength of Glencairn’s walls, and felt a moment of gratitude that she was inside, safe and warm.
Eventually she found her way to the Long Gallery. She hesitated briefly when she realized where she was, but pushed the door open and stepped in. It was not meant to be used that night, so the curtains were drawn and the candles were snuffed, but a small fire burned on the hearth to keep the room from growing too chilly. Sophy walked to a nearby window, pushing the heavy velvet curtains open. A wavering trickle of moonlight broke through the clouds and snowflakes before filtering past the frosted panes, so she walked slowly from window to window, opening all the drapes and letting in the light. A chill came off the frozen glass, and she pulled her shawl more tightly around herself. Despite the cold, she felt no wish to leave.
Sophy seated herself in a velvet chair and placed the candelabra she carried on the table next to her. The flames flickered gold in the silver moonlight, casting a little pool of light around her. She looked up at the portraits, and, as so often before, her eye was caught by her mother’s. She gazed up at it intently. Her mother appeared to be looking back at her, and the longer Sophy stared, the more sympathetic the painting’s gaze seemed to be.
<
br /> “I wonder what you would do, were you me,” she murmured.
Her eyes widened for a moment as the portrait seemed to glow with a silvery light, and she looked over her shoulder at the windows. She took another sip of her wassail, and turned back to the painting.
“I love Glencairn, and my work, truly I do,” she continued. “But—I miss Ranulf. I miss not only the—the things he does to me, but also him. His voice, and his obstinacy, and the way he laughs at me.”
Sophy gazed down into her half empty wassail cup for a moment, contemplating what she had just said, and there was another small flash of light. She looked up, and her mouth dropped open. Her mother smiled at her, and then her delicate white hand lifted and stroked the cat, which mewed gently.
Sophy hastily put down her wassail cup, wondering just how much of it she had consumed in the past hour. As she stared, her mother gave a gentle laugh.
“Don’t be frightened, Sophy,” she said.
“M-Mother?” stammered Sophy.
“Yes, Sophy.”
Sophy stood and came closer to the portrait, looking at it suspiciously. “Douglas, if you are doing something to tease me, I’ll strangle you.”
“Your brother is in the Great Hall, where you left him. He has no need of me tonight.” The voice was light and musical.
“Are you saying I do?” asked Sophy.
“You’ve had need of me since this summer. I heard you, you know, but I could not reach you. But tonight is Christmas Eve, when the veil between the worlds is at its thinnest. I called to you, and you came.”
“Is that why I felt so uncomfortable downstairs at the party?” Sophy whispered. She felt ridiculous, speaking to a painting.
“No, you felt uncomfortable because you no longer belong here at Glencairn. You’ve grown up, and need to move on.” The blue eyes in the portrait, so much like her own, smiled down at Sophy. “You are no longer my little girl, or anyone’s little girl.”
“But I do not wish to leave,” said Sophy argumentatively.
“Of course you do. It is time, and you will not admit it. I had to admit it once, too.”
“Admit what?”
“That the time had come to leave my family and make my own life. That I was in love.”
“With Papa?”
“With your father.“ Sophy watched as the long fingers caressed the cat, who arched her neck, seeking more of the gentle touch, and a curious smile appeared on her mother’s lips. “He was very handsome, you know.”
Sophy was astounded. “Papa?”
“Euan. He was tall, and well built, and had fine legs—don’t think I did not notice, though I was barely nineteen. He could charm the birds out of the trees, or so it seemed to me. He certainly charmed me. I found him distractingly attractive.” The voice grew dreamy.
“You—you wanted Papa?” The notion astounded Sophy.
“Oh, indeed. I’ll never forget the first time I was alone in a room with him.” She sighed. “I thought I had contrived it, but I found out later he was under the impression he had maneuvered me into it. It seems we both had the same thought.”
“But—but he was so much older than you,” protested Sophy.
“We can’t control these things.” There was a silvery laugh. “Poor Sophy, do you think that you can?”
“I—I don’t wish to be just a wife,” said Sophy.
“Would Ranulf make you merely a wife?”
“I don’t know.” Sophy looked perplexed.
“You must listen to what your heart tells you. Mine told me to marry Euan, though he was twenty years older than me, and knew far more than I did about the world. He was a soldier, and an earl, and had had many lovers before me, you know.”
Sophy gaped. “Papa? He had lovers?”
“Sophy, dear, your father was a man of the world. I had to trust him when he asked me to marry him. I never regretted it.”
“Never?”
“Oh, perhaps once or twice, when we quarreled. But then we made up, and that was delightful.” Her mother smiled warmly. “I was never angry with him for long, and he loved me faithfully, though we had far too little time together.”
Sophy clapped her hands over her ears. “I must be going mad.”
“No, you are quite sane, child. Though turning down Ranulf was a bit of lunacy.”
Sophy sat down again, staring up at the portrait. “Do you think so?”
“You need to find your own answers, Sophy. I can only tell you what I know. You love Ranulf Stirling. You must now decide if you can trust in that love or not.”
“But he doesn’t love me,” said Sophy miserably.
“Nonsense. He is a man, and cannot admit to himself that he loves. Your father spoke only of honor, respect, and that, having compromised me, he must marry me. It was remarkably foolish of him. I teased the truth out of him eventually. You may have to teach your Ranulf the words, too.”
“You make me feel very foolish,” said Sophy.
“You must admit what you want, and then take it,” said her mother. “You wanted to paint, and you made sure it happened. What is it you want now?”
Sophy grimaced. “Ranulf.”
“There, was that so hard?”
“But I told him I would not marry him!”
“Surely you can win him back?” The portrait smiled. “I don’t think I need to tell you how.”
Sophy flushed. “Mama!”
“I needn’t mince words with you, my dear.” The fingers trailed gently over the cat’s head once more. “I must go, my dear. The hour is waning. Remember that I love you.”
“Don’t go—“ began Sophy, but as she watched, the light from the portrait faded, and the picture returned to the familiar representation she had seen so many times before. Her mother gazed out at her, the eyes now merely paint, the lips frozen in a gentle smile.
Sophy picked up her glass of wassail and drained it. She sat for a few more minutes in silence, thinking of her odd experience as the chill of the room penetrated the shawl she wore over her silk evening dress. She longed to go straight to bed, but knew she should return to the Great Hall to make her excuses first. She looked back up at the portrait as she rose from the chair, wondering if perhaps she saw just a glimmer of the smile that her mother had worn during their conversation, before turning to go.
When Sophy re-emerged in the Great Hall, the noise level had risen, and it seemed that a few of the villagers had brought fiddles and pipes, for a reel was underway at one end of the hall, while older folk stood talking nearer the entrance. She saw Douglas whirl a young lady into the dance as Harriet and Glencairn toasted one another.
She walked slowly over to them. “I have a bit of a headache. I think I will go to bed now, so I am not too tired to go to church with you in the morning.”
“Don’t you wish to dance?” her stepmother asked. “I see young Sparloch over there looking this way.”
“No, no, I really must go to bed,” Sophy replied. “I’m sorry, but my head aches so…” her voice trailed off.
Harriet gave her a hug. “Very well. We will see you in the morning.”
As Sophy walked away from them Harriet turned back to Glencairn. “More an aching heart, than an aching head, I fear,” she said.
Chapter 31
At Spaethness Castle, Ranulf sat in the library, a glass of whiskey cradled in his hand. He gazed into its amber depths, his face blank. Snow beat heavily against the windows, driven by a strong north wind that made the panes in the window rattle. A fire roared in the hearth, casting a rosy glow into the room, and Ranulf stretched one booted foot out to it. He looked up as the door opened, and the butler entered, carrying a branch of candles.
“I thought you might like some light, sir,” he said. “It grows dark so early now.”
“Thank you, Gibbs,” murmured Ranulf. He turned back to his contemplation of the fire.
The butler cleared his throat and Ranulf looked up inquiringly.
“The doctor has been
here, visiting the laird,” said Gibbs. “He would like to speak to you.”
“Oh? Of course, I will come right away.” Ranulf put down his glass and followed the butler out into the hall. The doctor stood there in the gloom, wrapped in his coat, his bag on a table next to him, his spectacles shining in the candlelight.
“Good evening, Dr. Keir,” said Ranulf.
“Good evening, Colonel.” The doctor inclined his head as the butler left them alone.
“You wished to speak to me?”
“I did.” The doctor pursed his lips. “I will not mince words with you. Your father is very weak. I do not think he will last the night.”
Ranulf glanced at him sharply. “What has happened since yesterday?”
The doctor spread his hands out in front of him. “Very little, sir. He has been ill for many months now, and might have gone at any time. But today is different. He spoke very little, failed to demand a glass of whiskey from me, and did not insult me even once.”
Ranulf smiled wryly. “I see.”
“I’m sure you do. I had no worries for him while he had an interest in his usual activities, but today he is tired. Very tired. I do not think he will carry on much longer. If you wish to spend time with him, I suggest you do so now. I doubt he will outlive Christmas Day.”
Ranulf nodded. “Thank you, Dr. Keir, for the care you have given him, and the patience you have shown. It cannot have been easy for you.”
“As for that, I do not care,” replied the doctor. “He was a good laird, and a good man in his own way. He will be remembered fondly.”
“A man cannot ask for more than that,” observed Ranulf.
“Good night, Colonel Stirling,” said the doctor. “I wish you well.”
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