by Mary Daheim
At last, Uncle Donald closed the psalter. Yet another hymn followed, before the family relaxed, pressing Rob and Sorcha with questions about their journey. As if by some secret, mutual pact, neither Fraser related the incident with the Master of Gray or Sorcha’s adventures at Stirling Castle. Nor were they specific about why Rob had come to Edinburgh. Candor would invite criticism—or worse—from Uncle Donald.
After a fine supper of salmon baked in a flaky crust and pheasant served with a thick, rich gravy, Sorcha felt very sleepy. When Uncle Donald began to read from the Old Testament, she had to struggle to stay awake. Sorcha had not heard so much of the Holy Bible in a year at Gosford’s End as she had in the four hours since arriving at the McVurrich house.
“I’ll perish,” she moaned to Rob when they finally were permitted to escape upstairs. “You’ll be able to leave ere long, but I must stay! How will I bear this stultifying Presbyterian gloom?”
Rob was looking out Sorcha’s window into the darkened garden below. “I suspect it’s because this is Uncle Donald’s birthday. Apparently he celebrates with prayer and hymns.”
Sorcha hurled herself onto the bed, kicking off the new shoes, which pinched most painfully. “If you go off to become a priest, I’ll take the veil! Then Uncle Donald will be forced to throw me out of the house, and I’ll be saved from dying of boredom!”
Rob chuckled as he turned away from the window, while Ailis moved discreetly about the room, putting the last of their belongings away. “In truth, Sorcha, when I’m a priest. I’ll spend many hours each day in prayer.”
“That’s different—you’ll be a priest, not a banker.” Sorcha fixed Rob with obstinate green eyes. “I still hope you’re wrong about having a vocation.”
Rob inclined his head. “I may be. Time will tell.”
Sorcha didn’t answer. Time would tell a lot of things, she reminded herself, wondering how long it would be until she would meet acceptable suitors. It had already occurred to her that Uncle Donald would not allow Catholic gentlemen to call on her and that perhaps even lively Protestants would be discouraged. Sorcha’s vaunted hopes for a fine marriage seemed remote.
Sorcha felt as if she were some sort of prey, being stalked by the most dogged of hunters. The argument with Gavin Napier had raged for ten minutes. Napier was relentless, repeating his request to Sorcha over and over. She, however, had countered with at least a dozen good reasons why she should not approach the King to seek permission for Rob and Napier to attend Mary Stuart. But Napier had the perfect opportunity for Rob. Queen Mary’s strict new Puritan gaoler, Sir Amyas Paulet, had dismissed the Queen’s chaplains and was threatening further reduction of her suite. However, Napier learned that she retained a man to read with her in French. Some thought he was actually a priest. Whatever his true calling, the household’s move to dank Tutbury had eroded the man’s health. With so many years in France, Napier could easily fill the position. As for Rob, he would go to England in the guise of Napier’s manservant.
Outside the paneled library, sleet dashed against the two tall, narrow leaded glass windows that flanked the fireplace. Sorcha stood next to a bookcase, hands on her hips. “For the last time, I cannot! I keep telling you, we talked for a while, that was all. His Grace may have forgotten who I am.”
Napier leaned against the solid dark wood of Donald McVurrich’s desk. At least Uncle Donald was out of the house; with any luck he’d never hear of Father Napier’s visit. “The King is unaccustomed to lassies, but I doubt he’d let you slip from his mind.” If the words were meant as a compliment, Sorcha was determined not to notice.
She shook her head vehemently, the black hair sailing around her shoulders. “No, no! You must know someone at court with genuine influence.”
The brown eyes continued to stalk her as she moved restlessly around the room. “I’ve been gone almost fifteen years. My family never spent much time at court. You must approach the King.”
Sorcha let her hands fall limply to her sides. She stood quite still, giving Napier a little shake of her head. “Please. You persist, yet I cannot acquiesce. Please stop. It’s pointless.”
Napier brushed his beard with one long forefinger. “Your gentle brother’s life may depend on it,” he remarked without inflection.
“God’s teeth!” exploded Sorcha. “And the future of Scotland as well, I suppose!”
He nodded, the wolfish face solemn. “Oh, aye, that, too. Through at least four generations.”
Sorcha rubbed her left eye fiercely and blinked. “You play by no rules,” she accused him. “You don’t behave like a priest. I don’t understand you; I don’t know how to deal with you. Father, and that’s the truth.” Sorcha sighed loudly and rubbed her other eye.
Moving with his usual purposeful step, Napier crossed the room to put a hand on Sorcha’s arm. “There is truth to what I say about your brother. I didn’t intend to alarm you, but if it’s the only way to make you see reason, then I’ll be blunt. Without the King’s permission, Rob could be arrested and executed as a Papist spy, either at the command of Queen Elizabeth or Jamie himself.”
Sorcha felt the weight of his hand on her arm and wanted to shake free. But more than that, she wanted to prove to Gavin Napier that his touch didn’t tempt her. “It just seems unlikely that His Grace would see me.”
Sorcha felt Napier’s hand tighten on her arm. She stiffened but refused to flinch. “This is Rob’s future.” Napier was very somber, his wolfish face looking down at Sorcha. “Would you ruin his hopes?”
“Oh ….” Sorcha thrust out her chin at Father Napier. “I’ll think on it, at least.” It galled her to capitulate.
The sleet rattled the windowpanes and splattered onto the empty grate. Slowly, Napier let go of Sorcha’s arm and stepped back a pace. “Thank you.” The words were low and deep.
The awkward silence that followed seemed to bring the storm inside the paneled library walls. Sorcha felt the thrumming of the rain echo in her ears as she locked gazes with Gavin Napier. At last, he spoke again. “Do you hate me for what happened by Loch Tay?”
Sorcha blinked, then passed a hand over her mouth, as if she could still feel Napier’s kisses. “Hate?” The word sounded thin, reedlike. She gave a little shake of her head. “Nay. I—well, it’s occurred to me that ….” She bogged down, unable to say aloud that the fault was hers as well, for goading him. Most of all, she couldn’t possibly admit that she had savored those kisses, forbidden or not. She saw Napier watching her intently, the hunter’s gaze probing, yet touched with sadness. Sorcha winced inwardly and considered her next words with care. “It’s human to do foolish things. Don’t fash yourself over it.” She lifted her shoulders, signaling indifference.
Napier’s brow furrowed. “You consider the episode trivial?”
To her horror, Sorcha felt tears well up in her eyes. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, and turned away. “Don’t,” she whispered shakily. “Please—speak of other things.”
Napier took a single step toward her, but halted, a tall, rigid figure staring beyond Sorcha with unseeing eyes. “Damn,” Napier breathed, and slammed a fist into his open palm. He turned sharply on his heel and strode out of the library.
For a full five minutes, Sorcha remained where she was, the tears unshed, but cursing herself over and over for being weak, for lacking pride, and, for once in her life, being utterly incapable of speaking with candor.
A week passed, and the King did not return to Edinburgh. Rob was the only person in whom Sorcha could confide, but he had no advice. “I hear the court will move to Linlithgow at the end of November,” he told his sister, trying to be helpful.
“God’s teeth, Rob,” exclaimed Sorcha, “does Father Napier expect me to go there?”
Rob looked up from the fishing rod he’d been repairing. Along with three of his male cousins, he’d just returned from the Nor’ Loch at the edge of the city. Their expedition had been cut short when a heavy, wet snowfall blew in from over the Firth of For
th. As Rob started to reply, Doles, the only McVurrich daughter, slipped into the parlor. Her hair was as dark as Sorcha’s, but pulled straight back and kept tidily in place with a wide bandeau. She had recently turned ten years old, but was tall for her age, having inherited both her parents’ height. She was not a pretty child, with her long face and straight nose, but the regularity of her features indicated she might someday become a striking woman. Doles folded her hands and fixed her somber gaze on Sorcha.
“Are you going away, Cousin? I shall miss you.”
Sorcha smiled blandly, and Rob sucked in his breath. “I may visit the court, yes.” She glanced at Rob. “My brother wishes to travel, to broaden his education.”
“Ah.” Doles’s eyes sparked with comprehension. “My father isn’t much for traveling, though I think my mother might enjoy it. Where would you go, Cousin?” She gazed with interest at Rob.
“Oh,” Rob replied, lowering his voice confidentially. “Any number of places. The Indies, perhaps, or Araby. Where would you like to go, sweet Coz?”
Doles was thoughtful, the smooth brow puckering. “Mull. I should like to go to the Hebrides and see Mull.”
“What an excellent idea!” exclaimed Sorcha, trying to remember precisely where the isles lay off the Scottish coast. Her father had sailed there often, but for Sorcha, their location remained somewhat vague.
“There are fascinating rock formations there, I’m told,” Doles went on, her dark eyes sparkling. “They have wild goats and sea otters and red deer and buzzards and peregrine and … oh, so many wondrous creatures! Do you know,” she said, dropping her voice and looking over her shoulder to make sure they could not be overheard, “I’ve never been to Glasgow?”
“Neither have we,” Sorcha admitted, though it hardly seemed like a deprivation. “When I return to the Highlands, you must visit. We have some fine beasts and birds there, too.” Sorcha smiled wide, though she felt a pang; now that the snows had started, it would be several months before she could contemplate going home.
“There are waterfalls on Mull,” Doles informed them, now looking quite animated. “They are very high and cascade down to the sea.”
Sorcha found her attention wavering as her young cousin burbled on about the magic of Mull. Somehow, the recital only intensified Sorcha’s yearning to be in the Highlands once more. Though it had only been slightly more than a month since she had left Gosford’s End, Sorcha seemed to have been away forever.
“I am unaccustomed to advising young ladies on proper behavior in these situations,” said Donald McVurrich, inclining his head toward the large group of people who chattered and laughed in the Earl of Moray’s banquet hall not far from Holyrood Palace. “Doles is too young to attend such functions, but I would urge modesty and circumspect speech above all.”
Since Sorcha was attired in black from head to foot and had restrained her hair under a heavy net, she felt Uncle Donald’s advice unnecessary. Except for her speech. She did have a habit of letting her tongue go unchecked.
“Doles is very well read,” Sorcha noted, hoping to divert the conversation away from a possible lecture on moral turpitude. “She has studied geography and topography extensively for one so young.”
Somewhat to Sorcha’s surprise, Uncle Donald responded with a show of pride. “She has read more at her age than I have ever done. Except for matters pertaining to finances. A canny lassie is our Doles.”
Aunt Tarrill emerged from the throng of guests, two mugs of mulled wine in her hands. Her eyes were bright, and her skin had a youthful glow, as if her unaccustomed attendance at an elegant soiree had taken at least a dozen years from her age. “Here, good husband, drink deeply to savor the forthcoming spirit of Christmas.”
Uncle Donald raised one blond, bushy eyebrow. “Will we once more argue about the frivolity of Christmas?”
“Certainly,” replied Tarrill cheerfully. “We’ll argue for hours. And then I shall decorate the house, rehearse the children in their carols, and fill the wassail bowl, as always.” She reached up to touch her husband’s bearded cheek. “I swear, Donald McVurrich, it wouldn’t be Christmas if we didn’t debate the season!”
Uncle Donald gave his wife a vaguely sheepish look, then patted her arm rather clumsily. “I fear I’m becoming embroiled in a conspiracy. Our host approaches, no doubt to urge me to join in the dancing.”
“No doubt,” Tarrill replied, offering her hand to the Earl of Moray. “My Lord, you are the model of a gracious nobleman! I have already plundered your sideboard until my stays have sprung!”
Moray smiled in that engaging way Sorcha remembered so well from Doune Castle. He saluted Uncle Donald, then bowed to Sorcha, his hand still firmly clasping Aunt Tarrill’s. “I am delighted to see you’re … free to enjoy our hospitality once more, Mistress Fraser. I fear we did not have time to fete you sufficiently when you visited Doune.”
Sorcha was grateful for Moray’s discretion. She deemed it a measure of his consideration for others that he would take care not to bring up what might be an awkward subject.
“Our party was anxious to reach Edinburgh,” Sorcha replied, hoping she sounded sincere. In the background, several musicians were tuning their instruments, the random notes making a counterpoint to the laughter of the guests. The overcrowded hall smelled of perfume, perspiration, wine, spices, and roasting meat.
The Countess of Moray had joined them, her slender figure encased in a vermillion brocade gown with underskirts and sleeves of flowing pink moire. Sorcha’s smile had grown taut; inwardly, she cursed Walter Ramsey for dying and forcing his survivors into mourning.
“We scarcely had an opportunity to speak at Doune,” the Countess said shyly, as her pale lashes seemed to dip in deference. “Being cousins, we ought to be friends.”
The overture took Sorcha by surprise. “Our sires weren’t,” she blurted and felt her olive skin flush.
Moray, however, chuckled. “All the more reason for our generation to sue for peace.” He took both Sorcha and his wife by the hand. “Come, let’s move out to the gallery for a few moments. It’s too warm in here.”
The Countess gave her husband a sweet smile but demurred. “We mustn’t both leave our guests, My Lord. You walk with our cousin and refresh yourselves. I’ll see if the musicians are ready to play.”
Noting that Uncle Donald and Aunt Tarrill were too engrossed in their conversation with the Earl and Countess of Mar to notice her departure, Sorcha dutifully followed Moray from the crowded room. Once in the gallery, Sorcha took a deep breath. “Did you actually invite all those people, or did some of them wander in from the Canongate?”
Moray chuckled again. “To be frank, we had assumed that about half of our guests would still be at Linlithgow, waiting for the new Privy Council to be formed.”
“Apparently, they’d rather wait here.” Sorcha patterned her step after Moray’s as they ambled down the gallery. It was narrow but not long, embellished with some fine portraits of very ugly people. Sorcha hoped none of them were her ancestors. She was about to ask when Moray spoke.
“I felt most distressed at my inability to keep you from being taken by the Master of Gray as his hostage. He had my small household garrison outnumbered, yet my inadequacy doesn’t excuse me. I wish there were some way I could make amends.”
The earl’s handsome, candid face looked so chagrined that Sorcha was compelled to dismiss the incident out of hand. “It was quite harmless. I met the King, in fact, which was rather amusing.”
“Well!” Moray seemed pleased. “Poor Jamie, so put upon by his elders! I try to offer him cheer and good fellowship, but others accuse me of ulterior motives.” Moray shook his head sadly. “That’s not fair, really, since my only ambition is to provide a comfortable existence for my family. Despite the grandiose title, my wife’s dowry was meager.”
It hadn’t occurred to Sorcha that as the daughter of an assassinated regent, Elizabeth Stewart would have found her patrimony dissipated by the time she reached a
marriageable age. “But you don’t seem poor,” Sorcha remarked, as they reached the end of the gallery and turned back the other way. “Why, this party alone must cost a great deal.”
Moray looked rueful. “So it does. But I think of it as an investment. I’ve invited several important personages who may be able to improve my financial state.”
Sorcha craned her neck to look up at Moray. “Such as Uncle Donald?” Seeing Moray nod, she laughed. “I wondered. He seemed like an odd choice of guest for you.”
The Earl shrugged and took Sorcha’s arm. “Oh, perhaps. But Donald McVurrich isn’t quite as somber as he appears. As with many people who’ve come from humble origins, he is preoccupied with dignity and status.” Moray’s clear blue eyes rested on Sorcha. Beyond the gallery doors, the musicians had struck up a lively tune, drowning out the merry chatter of the guests. “Alas, some men of exalted birth overemphasize their state.” Moray’s mouth turned down at the corners. “George Gordon comes to mind.” He shook his head with regret. “And, like others, he considers me a rival for the King’s affection. Especially so, since the Moray title was once a Gordon prerogative before Queen Mary arbitrarily bestowed it on my late father-in-law. Yet,” he went on, halting to stand by a pedestal upon which rested a marble bust of a jutting-jawed Roman senator, “I bear him no grudge. His enmity frankly puzzles me.”
“So much antagonism exists among our people,” Sorcha commented in a tone that sounded too breezy for its subject. “Surely George poses no danger to you—nor the other way round, I assume.”
A smile eased the concern on Moray’s face. He reached out to take Sorcha’s hand, the warm, candid blue eyes crinkling at the edges. “I hope not. Yet ….” He shrugged. “Enough of my woes. Tell me, who is this fellow Napier? Surely he doesn’t come from the Highlands.”