“A wonderful idea, Mrs. Eliott,” agreed James. “I’ve heard there is a pair of mute swans in Farmer Wood’s Cattle Pond. You and Annabelle go on ahead while I speak to Miss Palmer and Miss MacFarlane, and say hello to my niece and nephew. I won’t be long.”
“Ooh, mute swans. I do love swans don’t you, Mrs. Eliott?” enthused Annabelle, pulling Elizabeth down the path in the direction of the pond.
“Yes, I do too.” Elizabeth followed Annabelle’s lead, quite bemused yet thoroughly enchanted as she listened to the young girl unselfconsciously prattle away about this and that. To think that she had originally travelled all the way to Eilean Tor on the off-chance of becoming a governess to this lovely, spirited child. Hugh’s child. A child that God-willing would one day be her daughter as well. She could scarcely fathom it.
Within minutes they came across the pond, dark and still beneath the shadows of the surrounding oaks. And as James had predicted, there were the two swans, floating upon the glass-like surface of the water, their graceful necks arched toward each other like a pair of lovers.
“Aren’t they beautiful?” whispered Annabelle.
“Yes they are,” Elizabeth agreed softly. Even though she knew she was being ridiculously mawkish, she was suddenly unaccountably envious of their quiet, simple solitude. “It’s a shame that we haven’t any bread to feed them.”
Annabelle smiled. “I’m sure Nanny or Miss Palmer will have brought some.”
A sudden movement amongst the bare trees on the far side of the pond caught Elizabeth’s eye. A man, dressed in dark clothing emerged from the copse, and started to skirt the edge of the pond, heading their way. Although there was nothing overtly sinister about his appearance or purposeful stride, fear prickled beneath Elizabeth’s skin. She gripped Annabelle’s hand and pulled her a little closer.
The stranger smiled and raised a hand in greeting. “Pardon me, madam.” He held her gaze as he approached. “If it’s no’ verra much trouble, would ye mind directin’ me to Queen Street. I seem to ha’ lost my way.”
“It’s behind you. You’ll need to retrace your steps, sir.”
The man glanced back over his shoulder toward the copse. “Och, so it is.” He took a few steps closer and peered at the lapel on Elizabeth’s coat. “I see ye have a watch there. Might I ask ye fer the time?”
God, was he a thief? Elizabeth didn’t bother to glance down. She refused to take her eyes off the man for a moment. Although her rational mind told her she was overreacting, her instincts screamed that she was not. “I believe it’s just past one o’clock, sir.”
His craggy face broke into a gap-toothed grin, and Elizabeth instinctively recoiled backwards, tugging Annabelle behind her skirts. Where in God’s name was James? If she screamed would he hear her?
“Och. Yer English are ye?” The man’s gaze suddenly flickered to a point behind her and his bushy eyebrows plunged into a deep frown. “I’ll bid ye a good day, madam. I mustna’ be late.” He doffed his hat, took a few steps back, and then all but bolted back toward the copse.
“I didn’t like that man,” stated Annabelle as the stranger disappeared into the trees. “He had mean eyes and he smelt like Papa’s dogs when they’re wet.”
“Beth?”
Elizabeth was so relieved to hear James’s voice, she nearly sagged into the pile of wet autumn leaves at her feet.
“Are you and Annabelle all right? Who was that man?” The moment James reached her, he pulled her swiftly into his arms. “Sweet Lord, you’re shaking Beth.”
“There was an ugly, smelly man who said he was lost, and then asked Mrs. Eliott the time,” said Annabelle. “But I think he was lying. He was probably a pick-pocket. Miss Palmer and Nanny say you must always look out for pick-pockets.”
“We’re fine,” Elizabeth said shakily, wanting to stay within the circle of James’s arms, but she drew back, acutely aware of Annabelle’s curious gaze on them. She made an effort to steady her voice. “And I don’t know who that man was, or what he really wanted. But there was something not quite right about him. He asked me directions to Queen Street.”
James’s eyes darkened and his mouth thinned to a grim line. “Wait here.” He released his hold on her arms and took off toward the other side of the park.
Elizabeth knelt down and held Annabelle gently by the shoulders. For all her youthful courage, the child’s wide blue eyes were clouded as they darted between her and the trees.
“You were very brave, Lady Annabelle,” she said gently, catching her gaze. “Your father will be all right and back here before we know it.”
“I know. He fought for the Duke of Wellington at Waterloo, and has lots of medals. I’m not worried about him.” Her forehead dipped into a slight frown. “But I was just wondering. Are you going to be my new mother, Mrs. Eliott?”
Elizabeth bit back a gasp. She and James had both underestimated the child’s perceptiveness. She concentrated on taking a calming breath and cleared her throat. “Your father…Lord Rothsburgh and I, we are just good friends, Lady Annabelle.”
Annabelle shook her head, her golden curls bouncing. “Papa loves you. I think he wants to marry you. He called you ‘Beth’ and hugged you.” Her frowned deepened and a shadow of sadness darkened her eyes. “He and Mama never hugged. Mama didn’t like it.”
Before Elizabeth could draw another breath, Annabelle threw her arms about her neck and buried her small face in the black wool of her coat. “I’m glad you like hugs. And you smell nice. Like flowers. I want Papa to marry you too.”
Elizabeth’s heart contracted so painfully it took her breath away, and she tightened her hold about Annabelle. She knew that this sweet child had been through so much, and it was nothing more than innocent yearning for a maternal figure that caused her to make such an impulsive pronouncement. But still…Elizabeth also wished with her whole heart that she could be a mother to the little girl. She opened her mouth to speak, but truly didn’t know what to say. She didn’t want to give Annabelle false hope that James would marry her anytime soon. So she simply cradled the girl in her arms and tried to swallow past the hard lump in her throat as she blinked away her tears.
A loud boyish whoop in the distance burst the stillness around them, and Annabelle pulled away. “That’s Charlie,” she said with a moue of annoyance. “I’d better go and tell him to be quiet, otherwise he’ll frighten the swans.” She ran off and as Elizabeth stood, James emerged from the copse.
“There was no sign of him,” James told her when he reached her side. Although his hair was ruffled, to Elizabeth’s surprise he was barely out of breath, belying the fact that he’d just been racing through the park. “I think he scaled the fence. I certainly don’t think he’s one of the local residents by the way you and Annabelle described him.”
“Who do you think he was then?”
James shrugged. “Probably just a chancer, a pickpocket like Annabelle suggested.” He grasped her hand and held it against his chest. “I’m just glad that you and Annabelle are all right.” He glanced around. “Where is she by the way?”
Before Elizabeth could reply, Annabelle, with Charlie only a step or two behind, hared past them toward the edge of the pond.
“We have bread. Nanny had some,” called Annabelle back to them, waving a brown paper packet in the air which Charlie promptly snatched from her. Annabelle squawked and snatched it back.
James smiled at Elizabeth and took her arm. “Perhaps some supervision is in order, my dear Mrs. Eliott. I’ve already been for a run. I certainly don’t fancy a swim to fish these two out of the pond.”
They advanced to the edge of the water and Elizabeth smiled quietly to herself as she watched James with his daughter and nephew. It was obvious he loved children. And he so deserved a child of his own. But would she be the woman to bear him one?
What if she wasn’t barren?
Since their reconciliation at the inn in Dundee, James hadn’t been careful about taking precautions against pregnancy.
And she hadn’t wanted him too. Part of her knew she must be mad. Any other woman, a sane woman, would feel both mortification and dread at the idea of becoming pregnant to a man who wasn’t her husband; of bearing an illegitimate child. But she didn’t.
Oh how she’d fallen, so, so deep. Despite all of the risks, all of the potential censure, she would love to be the mother of James’s baby.
She placed her hand against the flat of her belly, and let herself contemplate for one wild moment that perhaps she might already be carrying James’s child. A joyous feeling fluttered within her heart, as fragile and delicate as a butterfly.
She glanced at James and it was if he felt her gaze. He immediately turned to look at her, over the heads of Annabelle and Charlie—who were now quietly throwing breadcrumbs to the swans—and gave her a slow, heart-stopping smile. The one that made her knees feel like butter and made her skin tingle with awareness.
She smiled back in helpless thrall. How could she not? If this was madness, it was the most beautiful, fulfilling feeling in the world. And she never wanted to lose it.
* * * *
After they farewelled Annabelle and the two youngest Maxwells, James escorted Elizabeth back to Rothsburgh House in St Andrew’s Square. As the afternoon was still clear, he had suggested that perhaps she might like to see the Palace of Holyrood, and its extensive park. But they needed his curricle to make the trip, hence their detour via Rothsburgh House.
It was the first time she’d set foot in James’s Georgian townhouse since she’d arrived in Edinburgh. Not because James hadn’t wanted to have her there, but because she had insisted that she needed to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Rothsburgh House wasn’t a remote, isolated castle on the very edge of the North Sea, and it certainly wouldn’t do for the marquess to be seen housing his latest mistress here, in full view of Edinburgh’s tonnish society. It would be noticed and remarked upon. And Elizabeth couldn’t countenance that at all.
As she hovered uncertainly in the vestibule watching James issue instructions to Malcolm, his butler, she knew without a doubt that her taking up residence in Herriot Row had been the right decision. Even though James had introduced her to Malcolm as Mrs. Eliott—the recently bereaved widow of one of his fellow comrades from the Gordon Highlanders—she didn’t think the stony-faced butler believed a word of it. She’d caught the man’s cold stare of appraisal when James offered his arm to escort her to the drawing room for a quick cup of tea while they waited for the curricle. The dour Malcolm would never be as accommodating as Roberts, of that she was certain.
It was nothing short of a relief when the curricle arrived and they departed for the Park.
The trip through the wide New Town streets to Calton Road, and then onto the lower end of the Royal Mile, the Canongate, took no time at all. As soon as it came into view, Elizabeth knew straightaway that she much preferred the Palace of Holyroodhouse compared to the grey brooding bulk of Edinburgh Castle at the top of the Mile. Even though, the turreted, honey-stoned palace was smaller than she had anticipated, given it had once been the royal residence for the now deposed line of Scottish monarchs, it was elegant all the same— rather like a refined lady basking in the pale autumn sunlight.
Elizabeth recalled from her long-ago childhood history lessons that the ill-fated ‘Bonnie Prince Charlie’ had been the last of the Stuarts to reside there—albeit briefly—before he’d had to flee after the failed Jacobite rebellion of 1745. And there hadn’t been a monarch in residence since.
“It’s lovely,” she said as James drove the curricle down the last stretch of the Canongate toward the Palace, and its surrounding parklands. “Is the Comte D’Artois still staying in the Royal Apartments?” It was well known that the exiled French nobleman had been offered a place of sanctuary at Holyrood after the French Revolution.
“I believe he left some years ago,” replied James as he drew the curricle up in the Forecourt. “The Duke of Hamilton’s staff still maintains Holyrood though. We’ll just need to speak with the housekeeper to arrange a tour of Mary, Queen of Scots’ old apartments, over there in the left tower.” He jumped down then helped her to alight. “I thought you might like that, given you and Mary have something in common,” he added, flashing her a smile.
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows, puzzled. “How so?”
James took her hand, and as he tucked it into his elbow, bent towards her ear. “Why, her second husband, Lord Darnley, was rumored to have the pox.”
Elizabeth’s jaw dropped. “No!” She had known that Mary and the nobleman had not had a happy marriage, and that the Earl of Bothwell, her lover and third husband, had been implicated in Darnley’s murder. But her governess had certainly never taught her such an unsavory detail, that Darnley had syphilis.
James shrugged. “There are accounts that Darnley’s body was covered in pock marks when it was discovered outside of the tavern at Kirk o’ Fields, which isn’t far from here. Like Bothwell, Mary was also questioned about her husband’s untimely demise, but no charges were ever laid. Not that it mattered in the end. Queen Elizabeth had Mary arrested shortly after that on suspicion of treason.”
Elizabeth shivered. “Heavens. Queen Mary certainly led a tumultuous life.”
James squeezed her hand. “But unlike Mary, you will have a happy ending, my love.”
She made herself hold James’s warm gaze and with some effort, smiled back as they stepped into the dark shadows beneath the triumphal gateway where a footman from the Duke of Hamilton’s retinue waited.
What if he was wrong?
A strange sense of foreboding suddenly settled over her. A certain feeling that this existence with James would have to end.
And it wouldn’t leave her. Like the heart-broken ghosts of Holyrood itself, it clung to her throughout the entire tour, even followed her into the pale, late afternoon sunshine when she and James emerged from the Palace an hour later to take a turn about the grounds and the adjacent ruins of the Abbey Church of Holyrood.
“What is it Beth?” James halted in the middle of the nave, one of the arches from an aisle window casting a dark shadow across his face so she couldn’t see his eyes. “Have all the ghosts and tales of dastardly deeds made you melancholy, my love?”
She shrugged a shoulder and forced a smile. “Perhaps. This whole place is beautiful, but terribly sad. Especially in here. I don’t think there’s anything sadder than a ruined church, don’t you agree?”
She released his hand and stepped carefully over the uneven, stone slab floor to study the inscriptions on the grave plaques that remained in the south-eastern corner of the nave. She didn’t want to talk about what was really bothering her, the real reason for her unease. The talk of Mary and Darnley’s past had indeed resurrected her own guilt about leaving Hugh. She could try to bury it, but it was always there. James wouldn’t want to hear that.
She felt him behind her, his body warm and solid against her back, his hands on her shoulders.
“Beth.” He turned her to face him and lifted her veil, his eyes studying hers. “You can’t hide from me, my sweet. Tell me what’s bothering you.”
She felt her cheeks grow warm, but she didn’t look away. He was right—he knew her too well. “It’s just that…” She swallowed. No, she couldn’t, didn’t want to talk about Hugh and her own misgivings. It wasn’t James’s burden to bear. It was entirely her own.
She reached out and touched his cheek, suddenly wishing that she wasn’t wearing gloves. “I was wondering how long we would stay in Edinburgh. I must confess I grow a little weary getting about like a black crow, always wondering if someone I used to know will recognize me.”
James clasped her hand and angled his head to kiss the sliver of bare skin between her sleeve and glove, making her shiver. “I understand entirely. And I’ve been thinking about that too. Perhaps, after Christmas and Hogmanay, we could travel further afield, to Italy or Austria. Or indeed wherever you would like to go—”
The scrape of a foo
tstep on the flags was loud in the stillness. James looked back over his shoulder.
“Dinna mind me guv.” A rough male voice bounced off the broken stones around them.
Elizabeth glanced beyond James’s broad shoulder and gasped, fear clogging her throat. “James,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “It’s the man from Queen’s Park.”
* * * *
Rothsburgh immediately spun around, his whole body tensed and senses battle wary. He eyed the plainly clothed Scotsman with suspicion. “This is a private tour,” he stated in his best military voice as he pulled Beth directly behind him. “You have no business being here.”
The stranger smiled and took a few more steps toward them, palms spread upwards in a gesture of apparent supplication. “Och, I hadna known tha’. My friends an’ I mean you an’ the lady no harm.”
At his words, two more burly looking men filled the archway of the west-facing door, the only entrance and means of exit in the whole ruined abbey.
Bloody hell.
Whatever was going on, it was bad. Very bad.
Rothsburgh’s jaw tightened and he felt the muscles of his arms bunch beneath his coat. Without breaking eye contact with the first interloper, he spoke in a low voice over his shoulder. “Beth, when you can, make a run for it back to the main entrance.”
Clenching his fists, he then took a few steps toward the chancer from Queen’s Park. If he could engage all three men, distract them, then perhaps Beth would have a clear path to the door. “I’d suggest you be on your way, all three of you. The Duke of Hamilton is a personal friend of mine, as is Colonel Dixon, the Commanding Officer of the Scots Guard. And as I seriously doubt you have any legitimate reason to be here, I’d suggest you leave. Now.”
The chancer shrugged. “It doesna matter who ye ken, master high an’ mighty.” His face suddenly split into a gapped tooth grin as he pulled a pistol from beneath his coat and aimed it straight at Rothsburgh’s chest.
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