by Mary Daheim
She was, of course, visibly upset by Sorcha’s somewhat abbreviated account of the carriage ride with Gray and Caithness. And when Sorcha finally admitted that she was in love with Father Napier, Dallas almost dropped her wine goblet.
“Sweet Jesu,” she breathed, the brown eyes wide, “that priest! Dear child, you’ve been beset by an uncommonly cruel fate these past months. Only Moray sounds normal!”
“If being married is normal for the seducer of maids,” Sorcha murmured, biting her lip.
Dallas snorted. “It often is. Oh, fie, Sorcha, what a dreadful thing to happen with loathsome Caithness! How sorry I feel for his Gordon bride. If we tell your father, he’ll kill him. Perhaps we’d better keep it to ourselves.”
“I’ve considered killing Caithness myself,” Sorcha remarked dryly. “Indeed, I’m not anxious to see Gray again. Or Moray,” she added on a lower note, plucking at the hem of her peignoir, which she’d put on after the fitting session. “I like Moray,” Sorcha said, looking somewhat confused, “but I shouldn’t wish to encourage him.”
“Remarkably mature of you,” Dallas stated in a firm voice, but her thoughts were already elsewhere. “By the Mass, I wish you and Ros could have more governance over your hearts!” Dallas was on her feet, marching up and down the bedchamber, her rust-colored gown snapping around her heels like the flames of a crackling bonfire. “Fie, why Ros tried to run off with that wretched rodent, Huntly, baffles me! I worry about her.” Dallas stopped stomping and eyed Sorcha directly. “And you—I wonder.” The brown eyes were speculative but compassionate.
Sorcha looked away and changed the subject. “I saw Lord Hamilton today,” she remarked in a matter-of-fact tone. “Lady Hamilton is here, too, I gather.”
“Oh?” Dallas picked up a slim silver vase, rearranging some errant jonquils. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen them. John was sent packing with the other Lords of the Congregation when Arran assumed influence and stole both lands and title from John’s brother, James. Of course,” she went on, placing the vase back down on a marble-topped table, “James has been quite mad for years. I trust John is using Gray’s influence with the King to set matters aright.”
“Lord Hamilton has always seemed like a kindly man,” Sorcha said, wondering if such a breed truly existed. “I remember when he and Father took us fishing in Glen Urquhart.”
A reminiscent smile touched Dallas’s lips. “Ah, so do I. Ros developed a stomach complaint and Margaret Hamilton talked of nothing but the children she’d born by her first husband, the Earl of Cassilis. The woman has a penchant for bed-wetting anecdotes. Still, it will be pleasant to see her. And John.” Dallas was at the dressing table, sorting through a jewelry case. For Sorcha, it was a comforting sight. She felt better for pouring out her problems to her mother. Yet Sorcha knew that even her resourceful mother could not resolve the problem of Father Napier. No one could do that; it was up to Sorcha to find an answer for herself.
Rosmairi had gone hunting with the King. Her aversion to the kill had evoked resistance, which Jamie mistook for maidenly modesty. But Sorcha had argued that Jamie was in dire need of female companionship. If only to help him break the spell of such unnatural beings as the Master of Gray, Rosmairi must accept the royal invitation.
“She insists I should have gone instead,” Sorcha told her mother as they strolled the gardens of Holyrood on a fine May morning. “In truth, I wasn’t asked.”
Dallas smiled at her elder daughter. “Nor was I, but they’ll spend most of their time seeking game instead of killing it. No wonder the King, with his love of the hunt, prefers his residences outside the city.”
Sorcha concurred, though she suspected that the royal party would go no farther than Hunter’s Bog and Salisbury Craigs, which lay not far from Holyrood. Even now, she and Dallas were heading in the same direction, with Saint Margaret’s Loch just ahead. The area was part of the royal park that Jamie’s—and Sorcha’s—grandfather, James V, had converted into a hunting area. Guarded at one end by the rocky mound of Arthur’s Seat, and Saint Anthony’s Chapel at the other, it had also provided Queen Mary with many hours of sport during her brief reign. For Dallas, their stroll was evocative, taking her back in time to the years she had spent serving Mary Stuart, a bittersweet time of political betrayal and the discovery of love for Iain Fraser.
“Sweet Jesu,” Dallas mused, glancing back toward the gray stones of the palace, “such memories!” She drew a deep breath, as if savoring those far-off days in the air itself. Sorcha expected a wealth of oft-told stories to tumble from her mother’s lips, but instead Dallas spoke of the present. “I’ve been meaning to tell you,” she said in a brisk, yet unnatural tone, “that Niall sailed with your father and Magnus. Your sire hopes it is a way of … making amends.”
Ignoring her mother’s inquiring sidelong glance, Sorcha said nothing. She was glad for Niall, but somehow their brief romantic interlude seemed as long ago as her mother’s reminiscences.
Yet the past suddenly merged into the present as Sorcha looked up to see Lord John Hamilton, who had strolled out along the edge of Saint Margaret’s Loch with his young wife.
Both Hamiltons smiled broadly as they recognized Dallas. Lord John held out his arms in greeting, and Dallas embraced him warmly. She kissed Margaret on both cheeks, then brought Sorcha forward.
“How she has grown!” Margaret exclaimed. “My good husband told me he’d seen her here at Holyrood, no longer a wee bairn but a bonnie lass.” Margaret Hamilton was in her thirties, a ruddy-complexioned redhead with a boyish figure and a radiant smile.
As her elders turned their talk to Hamilton’s exile, Iain Fraser’s commercial ventures, and whose kinfolk had married whom, Sorcha grew bored. Discreetly withdrawing, she wandered off to seek the shade of birches that grew close to Saint Anthony’s Well. Sitting down on a grassy mound, with a view of the small chapel to her right, Sorcha picked off a buttercup and wished the heavy feeling inside her breast would go away. She managed to mask her longing well enough during the day, but at night, alone in the dark, she felt lost and empty. The worst time was upon awakening, when her wits were still dulled by sleep and it would take a few slow, agonizing moments to remember that Gavin Napier was gone, perhaps forever.
“Have you made a wish in the well?” The pleasant voice came from behind Sorcha, but there was no mistaking its owner. Slowly, she turned to see the Earl of Moray, attired in hunting garb and leading a sorrel gelding. When Sorcha didn’t reply at once, Moray tethered the horse to a sapling and spoke with less than his usual assurance: “My mount went lame while we pursued a deer in the direction of Crow Hill. I decided to return to Holyrood this way.”
Getting to her feet, Sorcha tossed the buttercup aside and shook out her skirts. “Your horse is a fine animal,” she said without emotion. “How did it become lame?”
“I’m not certain. We were racing along between the bog and the hill, having flushed the deer from a nearby copse. Suddenly Stow faltered, so I turned back this way.” Moray forced a smile. “Strange that I should find you here … alone.”
“Not so strange, since I had an urge for solitude.” She gave Moray a stony look, then swiftly strode to the horse, which was munching the long grasses. Sorcha bent down and gently lifted first one front hoof and then the other. “Ah,” she exclaimed, “it’s but a pebble. Have you got a knife?”
Moray did, and handed the weapon to Sorcha, who deftly excised the pebble while the horse stood patiently, as if aware that she meant to help, not harm. “There,” said Sorcha, dropping the pebble at the foot of the sapling and patting the horse’s neck. “Now you can gallop again, Stow.” She barely glanced at Moray as she brushed past him. “And you may rejoin the hunt, My Lord.”
Moray put out a hand to touch Sorcha’s arm. “Please … Sorcha, please.” His tone was urgent, almost desperate. “I must hear you say you don’t despise me for what happened at Linlithgow.”
“God’s teeth.” Sorcha stood motionless, Moray’s
hand still on her arm. Painfully aware of the sadness in his usually sparkling blue eyes, she turned to face him. “I don’t despise you, sir. I respect and admire you immensely. But I don’t love you. You have a wife. There can be nothing between us, unless we can be friends. The burden of restraint lies with you.”
A faint breeze stirred the birch trees. Stow looked up from the grasses, stretching his graceful neck skyward. Moray’s grip on Sorcha’s arm tightened as his face grew darker. “Do you think I married for love? I had both of the late Regent Moray’s fatherless daughters thrust upon me and was forced to choose one as my wife. I’m fond of Elizabeth; she’s a sweet child, but I don’t love her. Am I to be condemned to a lifetime of being loveless and alone?” Moray spoke with passion, no vestige left of the proud Stewart or noble earl, but only a young man facing rejection by the woman he loved.
Sorcha could scarcely remain unmoved, yet she hesitated to offer him comfort lest he mistake it for acceptance of his advances. “I don’t know what to say,” she confessed in a hollow voice, the green eyes troubled.
Moray sighed as he finally let go of her arm. “As you will. But I don’t intend to give up so easily. For now, I’ll rest content that you don’t find me contemptible.”
“Of course not.” Sorcha spoke more briskly. “I find you most gallant. And—” Sorcha cast about for the appropriate word—“appealing.” She winced inwardly as she saw Moray’s gaze turn quizzical. “Imposing? Gracious?” Sorcha threw up her hands. “God’s teeth, you’d be as fine a man as I know if you weren’t in love with me! I feel like a twittering ninny!”
Moray couldn’t repress his laughter. “Which is doubtless why I love you. There’s no pretense, no guile.” Reluctantly, he moved toward Stow, who was still cropping what was left of the grasses in the vicinity. “At least think on my words. You may find the world a more loveless, lonely place than you imagined.”
Sorcha saw the bittersweet smile and raised a hand in farewell. Moments later, she was hurrying past the chapel, along Saint Margaret’s Loch, and through the gardens of Holyrood with the wind in her hair and sadness in her eyes.
The King of Scotland was greatly agitated. He shambled about his chamber, rubbing his temples and spitting even more than usual when he spoke. Despite his youth, he looked old and wizened. “I am sick of them all!” he cried, pounding a fist against the stone wall of Holyrood. “Most of all, I am sick of my mother! Is there no end to her complaints?” He whirled on Sorcha and wagged a finger in her face. “I will not write to her again! Never, do you hear? She has plagued me since I was born!”
Sorcha tried to conceal her ironic expression. “Has she reacted badly to the bond of association you plan to sign with Queen Elizabeth?”
“Naturally.” James looked highly indignant. “She feels that the bond will forever cut off her chances to rule with me. God Almighty, I’m a man, not a child! She hasn’t reigned over this country for almost twenty years. Nor did she do it well while she was on the throne.” He loped over to an écritoire, where sheaves of correspondence lay in an untidy heap. “What’s more, she constantly whines about her household. Paulet, her latest gaoler, has eliminated several positions. I’m amazed your brother and his tutor weren’t turned back. But now, one of her ladies is with child.” James flipped up a long sheet of paper and peered at the elegant French handwriting. “Barbara Mowbray, married to a man named Curle.” He studied the letter for a moment, then tossed it aside. “Barbara has a sister, Gillis, who is being allowed to replace her. However, Gillis is a timid creature and unwilling to travel to England without a lady of equal social status.” Jamie made a distasteful face and shook his head. “Females! Sorcha, why can’t they be more like you?”
“I have no idea,” Sorcha replied with a little shrug. “I’m an ordinary person, just a simple Highland maid.” She pointed to a silver bowl that boasted a design of entwined ivy. “Are those oranges in there?”
The King glanced at the bowl. “Aye, bounty from King Philip of Spain’s emissary. Would you like one?”
“How kind of you to ask,” said Sorcha, grasping an orange and peeling it with her fingernails. “And you?”
Jamie shook his head. “They give me a rash. Or do I get that from some sort of melon?” He frowned. “No matter, I’d prefer a rash to these plaguing women.” The King turned suddenly shy and shifted from one foot to the other. “Will you go with Gillis?” he asked in an anxious voice.
Sorcha had just put two orange segments into her mouth. The green eyes widened and she all but swallowed the fruit whole. “To England? To serve Queen Mary?” She made no attempt to conceal her astonishment. “God’s teeth, I’d rather go to Africa!”
Jamie waved his big, awkward hands at her. “Nay, nay, Coz, it’s not so terrible in England. My mother lives in a fine manor house, only recently built, and she’s allowed to ride and hunt, and eats well. It wouldn’t be for long, just until Barbara Mowbray has her bairn. Or Gillis becomes brave.” He approached Sorcha, who was shaking her head even as she devoured more orange slices. “I thought it would be ideal, since your brother is there. And his venerable tutor.”
Sorcha choked on the orange. Being mewed up at Chartley with Gavin Napier would be heart-wrenching. Yet such propinquity might dispel her love for him. If she could see him daily, carrying out his duties as a priest—offering up Mass, changing the bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ—perhaps she would be able to still her longing.
“I would like to see Rob,” she said in an uncertain voice. “We haven’t heard from him since he left for England.”
“Correspondence is guarded most closely,” James said, looking both hopeful and forlorn. “Truly, I wouldn’t let you go if I didn’t think you’d return soon. We haven’t yet had an opportunity to discuss religion. Perhaps you could remain here this afternoon. The Master of Gray is coming, and the three of us could discourse. He knows a great deal about Catholics and Protestants, having been both.”
“On several different occasions,” murmured Sorcha through the remaining piece of orange. But the last person she wished to discuss religion—or anything else—with was Patrick Gray. At least in England she wouldn’t have to face him or Moray. “Let me think about it,” she finally said, giving Jamie’s arm a pat. “In fact, I shall go to my rooms and make up my mind now.”
“Ah, good lass!” Jamie rocked on his heels in relief. “I’d be so grateful. You have no idea how hard it is for me to keep refusing my mother’s requests. No matter how sorely she tries my patience, I still endeavor to be a dutiful son. And depend upon it, when you return, a rich and handsome husband will be yours!”
Again, Sorcha had to mask her expression. She had no illusions about Jamie’s efforts to find her a suitor. As for his avowal of filial devotion, Sorcha was unconvinced.
Her opinion was echoed by Dallas. Though she rarely defended Mary Stuart, Dallas listened to Sorcha speak of the King’s request with a set face. “He seems to have conveniently laid the burden of his mother upon our family,” Dallas noted with asperity. “Surely you will refuse?”
“Can I?” Sorcha asked, thinking it would be much easier if Dallas had agreed to the King’s proposal outright.
Dallas resumed plucking her eyebrows in front of a handsome mirror embellished with chunky cherubs. “You wouldn’t refuse outright. You’d think of six good reasons why it was impossible as well as detrimental to the King.”
“At least,” remarked Rosmairi, who had been sketching by the window that overlooked Arthur’s Seat, “we’d find out if Rob is dead or alive.”
“Of course he’s alive,” Dallas shot back, and pinched herself with the tweezers. “Fie, I almost drew blood!” She turned away from the mirror to face her daughters. “Rob couldn’t be in any real danger, could he? Surely he and Napier have been cautious about their mission?” She saw Sorcha turn away at the mention of Napier’s name. “Oh, by heaven, I didn’t think … Sorcha, do you truly want to go to England?”
Rosmairi th
rew Sorcha a sharp glance. Only the previous evening Sorcha had confided her feelings about Gavin Napier. “I think,” said Sorcha with conviction, “there are many reasons why I should go. Mostly, I want to leave the court.”
Dallas settled her little chin on her fist. “Yes, and so you should, all things considered. Though Chartley may present as many … complications as life does for you here.”
Slipping down from the window seat, Rosmairi confronted both Sorcha and Dallas. “You head for terrible temptation. Will you resist or succumb?” Rosmairi’s gray eyes glittered with challenge.
Sorcha exchanged pained expressions with her mother. “Fie,” Dallas breathed, getting up and going to a cupboard where she took out a bottle of wine and three goblets.
“As if there were none here?” Sorcha countered.
“How could you love that priest?” Rosmairi cried, waving a hand as if to fan herself. In truth, it was cool for late May, with heavy dark clouds hovering on the horizon and a damp feel to the spring air.
“So?” snapped Sorcha. “Aren’t you pleased that my heart’s desire is as unattainable as your own?” Sorcha stared boldly at her sister. “You might have better luck capturing Jamie Stewart than George Gordon.”
Rosmairi tossed her long, red-gold braids. “I might. Jamie is fond of me. He calls me his ‘Primrose.’ ”
“Primula vulgaris,” Sorcha snorted. “The scientific name, as I recall.”
“You’re vexed because Jamie finds me good company,” accused Rosmairi, now standing almost toe-to-toe with Sorcha. “You thought you had him all to yourself, the first lassie he’d ever noticed! And now you’re chasing after a priest! At least I set my sights on eligible gentlemen!”
Sorcha’s eyes narrowed. “Jamie would rather sleep with Patrick Gray than he would with you! In fact, he’d probably rather sleep with his spaniel, Morton!”