Gosford's Daughter

by Mary Daheim

  As Anne wound up the music box once again, Sorcha gritted her teeth and tried to think of other things. Her gaze fixed on a tall mirror across the room, its frame embellished with graceful nymphs. Noting her own image, Sorcha couldn’t suppress a wry smile. Dallas had finally succeeded in transforming her older daughter into a noblewoman of fashion and style.

  Yet Sorcha still hadn’t grown accustomed to her new image. The upswept crown of black waves, with thick curls resting on her shoulders, the dark green satin trimmed in jet, with a flounce of black lace petticoats, the molded bodice cut to show just a tantalizing burst of bosom, and the stiff high-standing black collar that framed her face struck Sorcha as most peculiar apparel for daytime wear and, for her, downright ridiculous at any hour.

  But it was expected at court, and Sorcha was forced to give in. Of course, she enjoyed the admiring glances men cast her way and the fulsome words of flattery proffered by gallants at court functions. They made no real impression, however, since the only admiration Sorcha sought was from Gavin Napier.

  “I must learn the words to this song,” Queen Anne exclaimed in her heavily accented Scots as the music box finally wound down. “Tell me, Sorcha, how does it go? ‘My laddie and I to Birth we will bide ….’ ”

  “That’s Perth,” cut in Sorcha, her chin in her hand as she regarded the Queen with forbearance. “It’s a town in Scotland.”

  “Ah! That’s good, a town!” Anne clapped her hands again while Jean Gordon Sinclair returned the music box to its honored place on the marble mantel. Jean was as blond as Anne and almost as tall. As George Gordon’s only sister, she had been given to the Earl of Caithness in marriage to cement the Catholic bond between the two Highland families. She was a sweet-natured, indolent girl; Sorcha wondered how she put up with a lout like Caithness. She also wondered about Gordon and his Stewart bride, but in the busy weeks since her arrival at court, she had not yet had an opportunity to ask. She already knew that Gordon had been driven out of Edinburgh by an enraged citizenry when it was revealed that he had corresponded secretly with Spain prior to the armada’s attempted invasion of England. While Jamie had shown remarkable leniency toward Gordon for conspiring with Catholic Spain, the capital’s Presbyterian majority had not been so broad-minded. Consequently, Gordon was said to be pouting in his Highland stronghold, no doubt waiting for the King to invite him back to court.

  It was not a notion without precedence; despite the convoluted, even treasonable, intrigues of Patrick Gray, Jamie had just announced his favorite’s reinstatement as Master of the Wardrobe. Sorcha had seen Gray at court on several occasions, but fortunately, always from a distance. As for Bothwell, he had not been in attendance on the King since Sorcha returned to Edinburgh. Nor had she ferreted out even a trace of Marie-Louise. For all anyone knew, the dreadful woman had remained in France.

  It seemed that Gavin Napier had stayed there, too. While the Queen twittered with Jean Sinclair over her toilette, Sorcha thought back to the last time she had seen Napier, in the monk’s cell at Saint-Germain-des-Prés. He had promised, he had given his word, he would come to Scotland. But almost a year had passed, and only one letter had reached her. It had arrived at Gosford’s End just before Christmas, and was brief and to the point. “Many obstacles have arisen to deter me from sailing to Scotland,” Napier had written. “Not the least of these is the illness of my brother, Adam. I pray that he will survive the winter here at Amiens. I left your good brother and his kinsman in robust health at Compiègne, thanks be to God. May the Virgin watch over and keep you until I can be with you once again.” To Sorcha’s dismay, he had signed the missive, “Faithfully, Gavin.” It seemed to her that Napier’s pen had as much trouble expressing love as did the rest of him.

  “Now we converse, ja?” Queen Anne was looking charmingly eager as Jean tucked the last curl into place with a turquoise-studded comb. “I ask today the questions.” She beamed brightly at Sorcha. “It is charmed I am to meet you. Where from do you ail?”

  “Hail. With an h,” corrected Sorcha. “I hail,” she replied, breathing heavily into the second word for emphasis, “from the Highlands. I love my homeland very much.” The slow, stilted speech managed to carry conviction. Indeed, this time when she had returned home, it had been much harder to leave. Instead of loosening with the years, the ties of family seemed to grow tighter. Magnus and his wife had a new baby son and were building a home overlooking Beauly Firth, just an hour’s ride from Gosford’s End. Rosmairi and Armand had been married in the chapel at Beauly in late January. While the new groom was anxious to go to Edinburgh and seek out Marie-Louise, Rosmairi begged him to stay in the north at least until spring. By then, she was pregnant, and now Armand wouldn’t leave her side until after the babe’s birth in October. So Sorcha had gone instead, seeing herself as the envoy-designate in the search for a woman who could disappear for years at a time. Sorcha’s reluctance, however, was tempered by the notion that if Gavin Napier ever came back to Scotland, he would first pass through Edinburgh.

  The Queen had turned to Jean. “I admire your gown. It is yellow …” She paused to point at Jean’s sleeves. “And blue.” Anne indicated the embroidered overskirt. “Your eyes are blue, too. Like mine.”

  “Excellent, Your Majesty!” Jean enthused. “Your gown is white and purple and ….”

  A knock from the anteroom interrupted Jean’s recital. Sorcha rose to answer it, but her hand froze on the crystal knob when she saw the Earl of Moray standing before her. “My Lord,” she said in an uncertain voice. “I didn’t know you were at court!”

  “Only since yesterday.” Moray smiled, the blue eyes taking in every detail of Sorcha’s altered appearance. In the almost three years since Sorcha had last seen him, the Earl had matured; his handsome face was more finely etched, the auburn hair just a shade darker. He was as lean and fit as ever and, if anything, had grown even better looking. Sorcha marveled that she was not moved by his obvious attraction and wondered if her indifference showed.

  There was no way of knowing, since Moray managed to tear himself away from studying Sorcha to hurry toward the Queen and kneel at her hem with an artful bow of homage. “Your Majesty,” he exclaimed, introducing himself, “I have heard that our sovereign liege calls you his ‘Juno of the North.’ How apt!” He smiled winningly at Anne, who seemed quite overcome by his effusive, yet open manner. “I offer my humble self in your service, now and always.”

  Anne glanced questioningly from Sorcha to Jean, who both nodded imperceptibly. “But, ja, aye, for certain!” Anne replied heartily, bidding Moray rise. “You are cousin, ja? So many cousins, half of Scotland, I think!”

  For once, Sorcha had to agree with the Queen’s assessment. Moray was seating himself in a chair next to Anne’s as she had insisted, and within moments, they were chattering away like old friends. Anne’s conversational skills seemed to flourish in his company. Sorcha and Jean withdrew to the far end of the room, exchanging bemused glances.

  The budding friendship was interrupted some twenty minutes later by King Jamie, who greeted Moray warmly and then announced that the court would move that very day to Falkland. “I must hunt,” he announced, puffing up his thin chest in the direction of his bride. “I grow bored in Edinburgh, and you must see more of your new domain.”

  Anne was excited by the prospect. It had seemed to Sorcha that after less than two months in the capital, the Queen had also grown bored. But Anne’s attention span wasn’t long; Sorcha had the feeling that she would grow bored almost anywhere, unless she was dancing or playing cards, avocations frowned upon by the more stalwart presbyters.

  Maids were summoned immediately, and a flurry of activity ensued. Sorcha was dismissed to tend to her own packing and, by chance, left the Queen’s chambers at the same time Moray did. The anteroom was deserted, and Moray paused, blocking the outer door.

  “It’s been a very long time,” he said lightly, his hands remaining motionless at his sides. “Time seems to have turned you from Ci
rce into Aphrodite.”

  The comparison reminded Sorcha of Marie-Louise, and her alter ego, Athene. Unconsciously, Sorcha made a face, which Moray took for displeasure. “Forgive me, I grow too familiar.” His skin darkened, and he inclined his head to one side. “I know little of what has happened to you in recent times. Is it true you’ve been in France?”

  Sorcha had been about to apologize for misleading Moray but changed her mind. “I stayed in a convent for a while with my sister, yes.” She offered Moray a cool smile. “But these past months I’ve been at home in the Highlands.”

  Moray turned quite serious. “I see. Is it true that your younger brother is going to become a priest?”

  Sorcha was at once on guard. For all his open-mindedness, the Earl of Moray was still a staunch Protestant. “Is that a concern of yours, My Lord?” she inquired archly. “I would have thought that Johnny Grant would be more interested, having been appointed by the Privy Council to search out Papists in the district of Moray.”

  The Earl’s handsome face seemed to grow even darker. “Young Grant is more fanatical than I in such matters. But then,” Moray said, with a forced shrug of indifference, “that is why he has been assigned the duty and I was not.”

  A sharp little laugh spurted from Sorcha’s lips. “If I were Johnny, I’d not go searching for Papists at Gosford’s End. He didn’t dare venture near our property while I was there.”

  Moray started to speak, apparently reconsidered, and rubbed his forehead vigorously. “You are displeased to see me, that’s clear. Why?” The blue eyes were genuinely perplexed.

  Sorcha stared at Moray for a long moment without blinking. “Why, indeed,” she echoed, on a weary sigh. She clamped her lips together as Jean Gordon Sinclair emerged from the Queen’s chamber carrying three hatboxes, the top one threatening to topple over. “Here, let me help,” Sorcha insisted, going to Jean and taking one of the boxes. Turning to Moray, Sorcha made an awkward little curtsy. “Pray excuse me, My Lord, but I must make ready for Falkland.” Over her shoulder, she threw him a warmer smile than she’d offered earlier and was faintly touched to see the pleasure that clearly showed in his eyes. Another time, another place … the words tripped unbidden through her mind, and Sorcha suddenly felt weighed down by more than Queen Anne’s hatbox.

  Chapter 22

  Ailis Frizell had again joined Sorcha on the journey to Edinburgh. While the serving girl had rarely complained about staying in the Highlands during Sorcha’s time in France, Dallas realized that once having been exposed to the stimulation of the city and the court, an alert, intelligent girl such as Ailis wouldn’t be satisfied with the comparatively dull and unexacting routine at Gosford’s End. At least not until she was married and had a family to tend, a prospect which was not yet imminent. So Ailis had gone south with Sorcha, and both young women were well pleased.

  It was Ailis who now oversaw the loading of their baggage onto a cart already sagging with the other attendants’ gear. Sorcha stood close by with the Countess of Moray and three of her children. Moray’s wife had seemed genuinely pleased to see Sorcha again, and while rather pale, she displayed signs of having grown more self-confident and talkative since their last meeting. The countess spoke with pride of her four children, particularly the infant, May, who resided placidly in the arms of a chunky wet nurse.

  “She’s a good bairn,’’ the countess remarked, motioning for the wet nurse to draw nearer so that Sorcha could get a better view. “Jamie and Francis and Meg cried a great deal. But,” she rhapsodized, “my wee May is all smiles.” To prove her point, the Countess tickled the baby’s rosy cheek and was rewarded with a coo of pleasure followed by a hiccup.

  Seeing that the courtiers were beginning to saddle up, Sorcha gave little May a pat on the head and turned to call for Ailis, who had momentarily disappeared in a sea of carts and wagons. But it was Doles McVurrich, not Ailis, who was hurrying up the drive of Holyrood, trying to wedge her way through the train of animals and vehicles that had begun to kick up dust and gravel as they moved away from the royal palace.

  Doles was out of breath, and her cheeks were becomingly flushed when she finally spotted her cousin. Now maturing into adolescence, Doles had grown considerably taller, and while she was still rather plain, the promise of a handsome woman was unfolding in the regularity of her features and the soft new curves of her body.

  “Coz!” Doles cried, waving at Sorcha. “Thank heaven I found you!” Hurrying with a coltish gait, Doles sketched the merest of curtsies to the Countess of Moray before taking Sorcha by the hand. “Please, come to our house! My father is very ill and my Lady Mother sent me to fetch you.”

  Sorcha hesitated only long enough to tell Ailis to ride out with the others to Falkland. After a minimum of protest, the serving girl shrugged her wide shoulders and turned away. Sorcha and Doles all but ran down the drive and past the Girth Cross into the Canongate. As ever, a number of local citizens had gathered to watch the King and his new bride ride out of the palace precincts. Doles led Sorcha around them by a shortcut through Lord Seton’s garden, and moments later, they had emerged by the entrance to a goldsmith’s shop, just above the old Canongate Tolbooth.

  “What’s wrong with your sire?” Sorcha asked as they slowed their pace upon sighting the house in Panmure Close just ahead. She had seen Uncle Donald and Aunt Tarrill twice since her return to Edinburgh, and except for looking somewhat tired the last time, he had appeared in good health.

  Doles pushed open the wrought iron gate that separated the house from the street. “He complained of his stomach this morning and decided against going to his bank.” From over her shoulder, Doles gave Sorcha a meaningful look. “You know how ghastly he must have felt if he wouldn’t attend to his business.” She paused to open the front door. “Then, just about half an hour ago, he collapsed. We sent for Dr. Hunter, who is with him now.”

  “Sorcha!” Tarrill’s skirts gave a mighty rustle as she ran to embrace her niece. “I was afraid you’d already left! Dr. Hunter said he’d heard the court was going to Falkland.” She stepped back, her long face drawn with anxiety. “Praise God, Donald seems better. The good doctor thinks your uncle works too hard.”

  “I wouldn’t discount it,” Sorcha said dryly, reminding Tarrill of Dallas. “Shall I go see him?”

  Tarrill, momentarily lost in reverie, shook her head. “Dr. Hunter says he must sleep.” She linked her arms with Sorcha and Doles, leading them into the parlor, where the sun shone in patches through the mullioned windows. “I have been a bit selfish,” Tarrill admitted as she sat down in a big upholstered armchair while Sorcha and Doles seated themselves on a cut-velvet divan. “For just a few minutes, when I feared the worst, I desperately wanted my own kin to comfort me.”

  Sorcha pulled off the suede gloves with their heavily embroidered cuffs and nodded in sympathy. “Of course. But where is Aunt Glennie?”

  Tarrill rolled her dark eyes, shedding sentimentality like a second skin. She reached for the comfit dish by her side and passed it to Sorcha and Doles. “Your Aunt Glennie’s comings and goings are quite unpredictable ever since she took up with that mapmaker from Leith. Morpeth, his name is, and widowed twice over like Glennie, but close to twenty years older, and colors his hair the most monstrous shade of red.” Tarrill chewed aggressively on the sweet she had popped into her mouth.

  Turning to Doles, she asked her to bring them some wine. “A chilled bottle,” Tarrill called after her daughter. “I fear the day grows overwarm. Now,” she said, rearranging her skirts and putting her feet up on the footstool that matched the one in front of Sorcha, “you must tell me of your adventures in England and France. We’ve had no opportunity to talk privately since you got back to Edinburgh.”

  Judging from her aunt’s relaxed attitude, not only had her worries about Uncle Donald subsided but she also seemed to be in the mood for a long gossip. If Sorcha left right now, she could still catch up with the rear van of the royal entourage. Yet, she was loath to go, awar
e of how lonesome Aunt Tarrill must get for the companionship of her Cameron kin. If necessary, Sorcha could ride alone to Falkland. It wasn’t that far, and the weather was certainly going to hold. Accepting a frosted goblet of white wine from Doles, Sorcha commenced her recital, careful to omit those parts that were too personal—or too distressing—for the ears of either her aunt or her young cousin. Yet, Sorcha knew, those intimate details, no matter how harrowing, were precisely what Tarrill would most enjoy. It seemed almost a pity not to confide in her kindhearted aunt.

  It was midafternoon by the time Sorcha finally sallied forth from the McVurrich household. The doctor had long since departed. Uncle Donald still slept, and Aunt Tarrill was growing a bit drowsy after her fourth goblet. Sorcha was feeling faintly lightheaded herself as she paused by the Girth Cross to splash water on her face. Three young boys were trying to give a cat a bath in the trough that ran around the base of the cross but the youngsters were having little success. Sorcha noted that the boys seemed a great deal wetter than the cat.

  Still smiling over their antics, Sorcha found the courtyard at Holyrood deserted, except for several riders who were just heading out through the Water Gate. She started to call after them to wait up until she could get a mount, but one of the men turned in the saddle, and Sorcha recognized him as the Earl of Bothwell. Quickly, she drew back and waited until the company had disappeared in the direction of the royal tennis courts.

  So Bothwell was back, Sorcha thought to herself, gathering up her skirts to avoid a large mound of horse droppings. Doubtless he was following the King to Falkland, hoping for a royal pardon of his latest misdeeds. There were, Sorcha knew, several: Bothwell was said to have dabbled in witchcraft; he had publicly stated that Scotland would be better off joining the Spanish armada, rather than fighting it for England’s sake; and he had taken part in a street brawl that had resulted in the death of Sir William Stewart, Arran’s brother.