Gosford's Daughter

by Mary Daheim

  Still chewing, Sorcha shrugged. “I’m upset, of course.” She paused to pour cream on her porridge. “But there is much to be done. Not only must I face my aunt and uncle, but no doubt Rob and Ailis will come racing into town, certain that I’ve been killed. And Moray is doubtless distressed, too.” She popped half a bun into her mouth, then dabbed at some melted butter which had escaped onto her chin. “Is there jam?”

  “Honey.” He proffered a tiny china pot. “All right,” he said with a sigh of resignation, “I must ask the question. Why were you not disturbed that I saw you naked?”

  Sorcha stopped in the act of spreading honey on her buttered bun and blinked at Napier. “Why, I have no idea!” She stared at Napier in amazement. “I never thought about it. So much else had happened.”

  Napier grasped the wrist that held the bun. “Is it because you think I’m not a man?” The words were low and harsh, the deep, brown eyes piercing.

  “Oh, no!” Sorcha gasped. She looked away, biting her lower lip. And in that moment she knew the truth: it was not just desire that Gavin Napier aroused, but love. Priest though he was, she had given her heart to the hunter, the man whose grip grew painful on her arm, whose peat-brown eyes could be felt if not met. It made no difference that he had seen her naked body because she already belonged to him. But he must never know, lest he break his sacred vows and send them both to hell. She forced her lips to form meaningless words: “I was so upset. You were my savior from those hateful beasts. Whatever you might do, it would not be stained by evil.” The smile she gave Napier was tremulous. He let go of her wrist and turned back to the breakfast table.

  “That’s so. I wouldn’t harm you.” His movements seemed heavy as he lifted the cider tankard and poured the murky, amber liquid into pewter tumblers. “Don’t tarry if you wish to reach your relatives’ house before Rob does.”

  Sorcha nodded, but her usual ravenous appetite had fled. Somewhere in her breast, where she had supposed her heart to be, Sorcha felt a stone weighing her down. It had been sufficiently cruel of fate to let her become infatuated with a lad who had turned out to be her half brother; it had been demeaning to have been jilted by a callow Highland laird; it was wretched luck to have been enticed by the charms of a married man; but surely no future could be more bleak than to fall hopelessly, desperately, in love with a priest who had committed his body and soul to God.

  For the first time in her life, Sorcha cursed the Catholic Church and the devastating misfortune of having been born into its faith.

  Chapter 12

  In February, when the hoarfrost silvered the city, King James commanded Sorcha’s presence at Falkland. But Rob had not yet left for England, and both their aunts were suffering from grippe. Sorcha dispatched a tactfully worded letter to Jamie, expressing her regrets and looking forward to joining the court in March.

  By that time, King James was headed north on a progress, stopping first at Wemyss. Sorcha delayed once more. His Grace was to be accompanied by Moray, Gray, and Caithness. She had no desire to spend time with any of them. The tedium of Panmure Close was preferable to the overtures of Moray and the brutalities of the Master and his minions.

  Moray’s innate gallantry had prompted a letter of abject apology, accompanied by an exquisite gold chain with a heart encircled by amethysts. He reiterated his love and spent several pages reviling himself for not being able to save Sorcha from Patrick Gray’s cruel machinations. Sorcha, having no wish to encourage him, did not respond.

  Ignoring her feelings for Gavin Napier was more difficult, though, but circumstances came to her aid. While Napier had managed to smooth over her return to the McVurrich household, she didn’t see him alone after that night. Except on two occasions when Uncle Donald was away, Napier met Rob elsewhere to discuss the preparations for their journey. Aunt Tarrill and Aunt Glennie were finally told of Rob’s plans and were both present when the hour of leave-taking was at hand. With great effort, Sorcha had maintained her composure right up until Rob gave her one last hug. Over his shoulder, she could see Napier, the hunter’s eyes shadowy and solemn. Or was it sadness that touched him? she suddenly wondered—and promptly burst into tears. As the two men rode up the High Street, Sorcha let her aunts assume that she cried solely for Rob.

  To Sorcha’s distress, the days that followed failed to dim her feelings or alleviate her loneliness. She spun out the hours by reading with Doles or playing cards with her aunts. There were long talks in the winter evenings with Ailis, of books and geography and history. Ailis’s stolid presence was a comfort, and on rare occasions, she would exhibit a dry sense of humor that made Sorcha smile.

  Yet no suitors approached Panmure Close. The McVurrich sons’ friends came to call, but they were uniformly and unyieldingly Presbyterian. The mere idea of courting a Catholic lass would have scandalized them.

  As the weather improved and the days grew longer, there was more opportunity to go outdoors. Walks along the Nor’ Loch, horseback riding outside the city gates, and even an expedition to the sands of Leith helped pass the time.

  On a windy April day with fitful sunshine, Dallas Fraser arrived with Rosmairi, Flora, seven trunks, five boxes, and a large sea chest. Iain Fraser and Magnus had sailed to Italy in mid-March. Dallas had decided to visit her relatives in Edinburgh and announced that she and her daughters would join the court as soon as the King returned to Edinburgh.

  “He’s gone north to patch up some wretched quarrel between Huntly and Caithness,” Dallas said, as Flora and Rosmairi unpacked their baggage. “I believe Huntly’s sister will wed with Caithness to cement the reconciliation of the two families.”

  Sorcha blanched at Caithness’ name. “Caithness is a vicious beast,” Sorcha declared, noting her mother’s scrutiny. “I feel sorry for the Gordon lass.”

  “I don’t,” said Dallas. “She has the brains of a pigeon. And how do you know Caithness?”

  Sorcha winced. “I met him here in Edinburgh. He makes a poor impression.”

  “I haven’t seen him since he was a lad.” Dallas flipped her unbound hair over her shoulders. “Yes, I do believe he murdered some people. His father’s gaolers, as I recall.” She shrugged and began to remove the mauve riding jacket, with its padded shoulders and black-braid trim. “How I wish I’d arrived before Rob left! Do you know, I was absolutely certain he’d never get permission?” She sighed and shook her head. “I’m uneasy. Mary Stuart has never brought our family anything but trouble.”

  Sorcha could hardly refute her mother’s words. She glanced at Rosmairi, who was hanging up a dazzling ball gown of teal satin brocade shot with gold. Rosmairi looked taller, more composed, yet somehow detached. Sorcha wondered if she’d seen George Gordon since the attempted elopement. She was anxious to talk to her sister alone.

  The opportunity came that night. Aunt Tarrill had rearranged her guests, putting Sorcha and Rosmairi together, while Ailis joined Flora in a smaller bedroom. Dallas took over the chamber vacated by Rob, though part of her wardrobe had to be stored elsewhere.

  “It would appear that our Lady Mother intends to stay awhile,” Sorcha remarked as she and Rosmairi prepared for bed.

  “She does.” Rosmairi brushed her red-gold hair vigorously. “Father will be away until August. I doubt that we’ll go home before then.”

  “Damn.” Sorcha snatched her nightshift and put it on over her head. “I’d begun to yearn for summer in the Highlands,” she said, her voiced muffled by the shift.

  “What? I can’t hear you.” Rosmairi stood up, impatiently thrusting the hairbrush aside.

  Sorcha repeated her words, but didn’t wait for a response. “Tell me, Ros, what makes you so cross?”

  With brisk, efficient motions, Rosmairi wound her hair into a single plait. “What would you think?” She threw Sorcha a challenging look. “Did you really believe that I’d forget George Gordon so easily?”

  Sorcha stared at her sister. “Well … I suppose I haven’t thought about it much one way or the other.”
She saw Rosmairi’s cheeks turn pink as cherry blossoms. “I mean, I thought about you a great deal. But I hoped you’d dismiss George from your mind, seeing that he was a feckless sort.”

  For one brief instant, it appeared that the overbright gray eyes would shed tears upon the flushed cheeks. But Rosmairi drew herself up straight and emitted a sharp little laugh. “What does it matter? What’s done is done, but that doesn’t mean I can’t regret it.” She moved with unwonted dignity toward the casement that looked out over the Canongate. “I’ve had time to think since you left home.” She glanced down into the street, where a McVurrich servant was extinguishing the light that each burgher was required to keep burning until curfew. Church bells sounded, from nearby Holy Trinity, and farther off, from Saint Giles. Rosmairi turned back to gaze unblinkingly at Sorcha. “I lost George; Johnny Grant threw you over. But it’s not the same. I love George.” She lifted her chin, and suddenly Sorcha saw less of the lass and more of the woman.

  Rosmairi was gliding to the prie-dieu, where she fell to her knees. “I must say my prayers. Good night, Sorcha.”

  Sorcha tugged the counterpane back and crawled into bed. Rosmairi was wrong, at least about one thing—Sorcha also knew of love. But she dared not admit it.

  Rosmairi’s nocturnal devotions went on and on. Drowsily thinking to herself that such piety would make Uncle Donald envious, Sorcha drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

  Holyrood Palace wasn’t one of King Jamie’s favorite residences. He preferred his country dwellings, particularly Falkland, where the hunting was superior. But a king must occasionally live in his capital, so Jamie returned with his court the last week of April.

  Dallas had been surprised to learn that Sorcha already had an invitation to court, personally extended by the King. Sorcha, however, was vague about how she’d met Jamie and suggested that they should seek formal permission for her mother and sister to visit Holyrood. Dallas merely scoffed, asserting that Jamie was her nephew by marriage and that she needed no such ceremony.

  As it turned out, Dallas was right. While Jamie welcomed Sorcha with considerable warmth, he seemed well pleased to see Dallas and to reacquaint himself with Rosmairi, who had been a very small child the last time they’d met. But it was Sorcha he sent for the next day, greeting her in his chambers just before noon.

  “We’re to have a tournament for May Day,” he announced, piling up a stack of books and haphazardly shoving them onto a shelf. “It will be very dull, with Moray winning all the prizes. But at least it will make the Master of Gray envious. Though,” he added, thoughtfully pulling on his long chin, “I dislike it when Patrick is angry. He becomes quite ungovernable.”

  Sorcha picked up Morton and set him on her lap. “Moray and Gray are both at court?”

  “Oh, yes, and at each other’s throats like two cocks in a pit.” The King glanced out the window, which looked toward the adjacent rocky mount of Arthur’s Seat. “Pray tell me, Coz,” he asked with a tinge of diffidence, “is your sister like you?”

  Still considering the dilemma of eventually confronting both Moray and Gray, Sorcha was caught off guard by the question. “Rosmairi? Well, not exactly. She’s quieter. And more sweet natured. Usually,” she amended, thinking of her sister’s recent change in temperament.

  “Ah.” Jamie nodded, still in a ruminative mood. He looked at Sorcha with cautious eyes. “She is bonnie, is she not?”

  “Aye, very bonnie.” Sorcha spoke with a sister’s loyalty, though bemused by Jamie’s comments. “Your Grace, don’t tell me Ros caught your fancy!” She gave the King a teasing smile.

  Jamie stood very straight, his face quite solemn. The spaniel grew alert in Sorcha’s lap, his ears pricked with apparent interest. “I’m of an age where dalliance is part of my royal prerogative,” he declared, then seeing Sorcha’s flabbergasted expression, hastened to add, “I mean no dishonor to your sister. Many highborn ladies, including your own Fraser grandmother, have been eager to let the Kings of Scotland bestow … uh, favors upon them.”

  “Favors, my backside,” Sorcha retorted, then softened as she noticed that Jamie was flushing. “Excuse my capricious tongue, Your Grace, but I can’t speak for Rosmairi. And to be honest, I’m somewhat surprised.”

  Jamie’s flush deepened. “You’ve heard … tales?”

  Having bearded the subject, Sorcha could do nothing but plunge ahead. She felt Morton quiver in her lap and patted him reassuringly. “You’ve scarcely kept your preference for males a secret, My Lord. Nor should you, if that is your predilection. You are, after all, the King.”

  Jamie let out a long breath in apparent relief. The narrow shoulders slumped as he flopped down in his chair of state, one leg flung over the carved oak arm. “Many despise me for such perversities. But I’ve never known the affection of women, save for my wet nurse. Frankly, I always thought her a trifle odd.”

  Morton had grown restive. Sorcha let the dog down from her lap and smoothed her black skirts. “If you seek female companionship, you’ll find Rosmairi personable. However, I doubt she’d be willing to follow in her grandmother’s footsteps,” Sorcha added with a wry smile. “We need no more royal bastards to complicate our family situation.”

  Somewhat to Sorcha’s surprise, Jamie’s chest seemed to expand with pride at the suggestion he might father a child. “I shall respect her virtue, yet I find her comely. She doesn’t paint her face, though her hair is too long. But then,” he added musingly, “so is yours. I’ve been taught that cosmetics and flowing tresses are lures of the devil.”

  As if by reflex, Sorcha ran a hand through her own long black hair. “I’m not one for paints and such myself, but I should find bald women devilishly frightening.”

  Jamie burst into a giggle, the high, piercing sound that Sorcha was getting used to. Clearly, it bothered Morton not a whit, as he shambled into a corner of the audience chamber and relieved himself in a gilded box.

  A discreet rap on the door cut short Jamie’s laughter. Simeon appeared, announcing that the King had a visitor. Sorcha stiffened in her chair, almost certain that either the Master of Gray or the Earl of Moray was about to appear. But it was Lord John Hamilton, tall, broad shouldered and distinguished in a blue doublet that flirted with the royal purple.

  Hamilton bowed courteously before the King. “The tournament is about to begin, Your Grace.”

  Jamie turned fretful. “Is it to last all afternoon?”

  An indulgent smile touched Hamilton’s mouth. “Not quite. We’ll adjourn before five to a fountain of wine in the courtyard.”

  “Ah.” Jamie nodded in satisfaction, then motioned at Sorcha. “Have you met Lord Hamilton? He is recently returned from exile.” The King spoke with a certain smugness, as if he enjoyed putting one of his most important lords in a potentially embarrassing situation.

  But Sorcha had stood up, proffering her hand to Hamilton. “I’ve not seen you in several years, sir. I’m Sorcha Fraser of Beauly.”

  Hamilton expressed his pleasure as he kissed Sorcha’s fingertips, then gripped them firmly in his own. “Why, my dear child, I’d not have known you! It’s been so long since I’ve ventured into the Highlands.” He smiled broadly, surveying her from head to toe with his frank brown-eyed gaze. “Who do you look like? Your father’s coloring, I’d say, but your mother’s features predominate. It’s an enchanting combination.”

  “Thank you.” He let go of her hand, and Sorcha bobbed him a curtsy. “My mother and sister are also at court,” she blurted.

  “Are they indeed?” Hamilton’s smile stayed in place. “I shall be delighted to call upon them, as will Margaret. My wife is very fond of your Lady Mother.” He turned back to the King, who was clearly bored by the entire exchange. “Shall we go, Your Grace?”

  Jamie went, with Hamilton following, and Sorcha was left standing alone in the middle of the audience chamber. She supposed she should also attend the tournament, but was even less enthused over the idea than King Jamie. The prospect of watching Moray
devastate his opponents and bask in the acclaim of the courtiers was unsettling. Sorcha had been at court for only a day, and already she was restless and uncomfortable. The song of the sea and the scent of the pine called her home, though she knew she could not escape from herself.

  Sorcha was rescued from the May Day tournament by her mother, who had summoned the best dressmaker in Edinburgh to Holyrood. If Dallas had been surprised that her eldest daughter seemed to prefer a two-hour fitting session to an afternoon of athletic competition, she made no comment. At least not then. But after supper, which Dallas had elected to take in their rooms, she dispatched Rosmairi on an errand and sat Sorcha down for a serious talk.

  “If you think I’ve been unaware of the change in you since my arrival in Edinburgh, you’re mistaken,” Dallas announced, plumping up the pillows behind her on a delicately carved French divan. “I’ve merely been waiting for you to come to me. But since you’ve kept silent, I think it’s time to discover what troubles you.” She gave her daughter a sardonic, but loving smile. “Mothers have a way of knowing.”

  Sorcha’s initial reaction was to deny that she had any problems. Certainly in the first seventeen years of her life at Gosford’s End nothing more serious than a quarrel with her sister and brothers, or rebellion against her parents’ discipline had raffled the calm waters of her life. Until she’d been jilted. Then there was Niall, of course, and the Earl of Moray. Most of all, there was Gavin Napier. Sorcha’s life had been turned upside down.

  In an uncertain voice that gathered strength as she went along, Sorcha unwound the tale of her adventures since leaving the Highlands. To her daughter’s astonishment, Dallas listened in virtual silence, only occasionally offering a word of encouragement or understanding. It was strange, Sorcha thought fleetingly, how her mother could rant and explode over life’s minor irritations, but when it came to serious matters, Dallas was amazingly self-controlled.