by Mary Daheim
“But first Cummings must bring beer. Or was it sack?” Dallas gave Grant a befuddled glance. Suddenly, she all but jigged with excitement. “And that sumptuous pickled herring in cream! Such a treat! Johnny,” she said with a motherly smile, “aren’t those laddies well-nigh famished? We’ll have a picnic, to prove we Frasers can let bygones be bygones.” With a firm but friendly shove, she marched past Grant to the others. “Good gentlemen of Freuchie, we’ve food and drink to put you at your ease. Come, under the larches, by the rose garden. It’s cooler there, and your ponies may slake their thirst in the little pool. Just don’t let them trample my pansies. I nursed them through that uncommonly late May frost.”
The Grant supporters, who were uniformly wiping perspiration from their brows while their little mounts drooped under them, waited anxiously for a signal from their leader. Johnny Grant’s face was set, however, and he turned to Iain Fraser, who was idly leaning against the doorway examining his fingernails. “My Lord,” Grant said in a voice that he hoped conveyed mature authority, “while those men that I do not need just now refresh themselves, I must insist upon searching these premises at once. At once,” he echoed, stamping his booted foot.
Fraser shrugged. “As you will, Johnny. But take care when you reach the solarium. One smudge of dirt, and my lassie will skewer you. She just had it prettified at a cost that made half the tradesmen in Inverness wealthy, while helping to impoverish me.” He shook his head with mock self-pity. “It’s as well you didn’t marry Sorcha, Johnny; you could have ended up like me, a pathetic old man eking out a living by trading good Scots wool for Norwegian pickled herring.”
To Johnny Grant, the tall, lean Iain Fraser, even at sixty, with his pantherlike grace and air of easy command, hardly seemed old or pathetic. Though his hair had more gray than black, and the lines in his face were etched deep by years at sea and a life lived well, Fraser’s cool hazel eyes not only knew more, but still saw more than most men half his age.
“I shall search the, uh, solarium, myself,” averred Grant, finally signaling for a half dozen of his men to follow. The others trotted eagerly after Dallas, while she shouted for Cummings to serve their guests.
It took two hours for Grant and his men to search the Fraser home. In the kitchen, Catriona stood by the ovens, wielding a basting brush and expressing displeasure at the invasion of her domain. After a cursory perusal of Dallas’s bedroom, they were dispatched by an irate Flora, who was mending her mistress’s best ballgown. In the servants’ quarters, the ancient Marthe wheezed after them, making sure that they replaced every item that they touched. In Rob and Rosmairi’s rooms, now converted into a suite for the d’Aillys, Armand gave them scant shrift. His wife was taking a nap, and in her delicate condition, they might risk sending her into premature labor, a crime for which they would pay dearly with specific members of their bodies. As for the nursery, which was in the process of being refurbished by some of the same workmen who had been hired for the solarium, Dallas herself intervened.
“I wouldn’t hide the Pope himself in a place I was having redecorated,” she declared, maneuvering Johnny Grant around a bucket of paste for the pastel wallpaper being hung by a finicky young craftsman. “If you can find a priest in yonder cradle,” Dallas warned them, “I’ll send him to the gallows myself.”
At last, Grant and his followers reassembled in the entry hall, an overwarm, weary lot. “There’s still some schnapps and kippers, I believe.” Dallas informed them airily. “Feel free to partake. But,” she admonished as the half dozen searchers gratefully headed outside, “mind my pansies!”
Johnny Grant did not follow his men outside, however. “There are stables and other outbuildings, My Lady. We are not yet finished.” He cleared his throat importantly. “Not yet finished at all.”
“You never are,” Dallas retorted irritably. It had cost her greatly this past two hours to exert such good-natured amicability. “Go pry into every nook and cranny of Fraser property, then. Look until your funny little eyes pop out. But disturb one blade of grass, and there will be no sixth Laird of Freuchie!”
Grant had the grace to look vaguely embarrassed, but he also possessed a dogged tenacity that brooked even the most menacing of threats. “We respect your rights as Highlanders,” he allowed, no longer making an effort in the heat of the late afternoon to restrain his paunch, “yet I must tell you, we have heard from unimpeachable sources that one, and perhaps two, priests visited you here within the last few days. Not to mention,” he mumbled on, “the presence of that Frenchman.”
“Oh, fie,” exclaimed Dallas in exasperation, “that Frenchman is our son-in-law! Now beat your retreat, Johnny Grant. I’ve expended all the patience I possess on you today!” Dallas deliberately turned her back and stomped off toward the kitchens. But before she turned the corner of the hallway, she paused to make certain Johnny Grant had left the house. Then, picking up her pale green skirts, she raced off, all but hurtling into Cummings who was with Catriona, supervising preparations for the family supper. Ordinarily, Cummings would not have shared responsibilities with the Fraser head cook, but this afternoon, his presence was mandatory. On the hottest day of the year, it was one of those rare occasions when the ovens at Gosford’s End had not been fired up. In their deep recesses reposed Gavin and Father Adam Napier, uncomfortable but safe from Johnny Grant’s prying eyes.
Dallas was particularly concerned for the crippled priest; as for Gavin Napier, she wasn’t entirely sure she wouldn’t prefer roasting him anyway. But Adam insisted he’d rather enjoyed the dark solitude of the oven. “The sweet smell of bread lingers,” he assured Dallas, as two kitchen boys assisted him into a chair. “I meditated on the bread and wine, on the Body and Blood of Christ. And,” he added with a twinkle, “on fresh buttered rolls and biscuits.”
Ovens or no ovens, Dallas declared that a sumptuous table must be set, to honor the deception of Johnny Grant. She was also pleased to meet Father Adam, though her emotions were far more mixed at seeing Gavin Napier again.
Iain Fraser pulled a fresh shirt on over his shoulders and gave his wife a crooked grin. “Gavin Napier is in an awkward situation in more ways than one. Had I not opened my doors to him years ago, I might have run him through on the spot. But while Sorcha was once quite keen on having her honor avenged in the matter of Johnny Grant, I don’t think she’d thank me for doing likewise with Napier.”
Dallas tucked her hair up inside a heart-shaped cap edged with pearls. “Married to a so-called witch! Fie, I’ve known many a man who’s claimed such was his plight, but Gavin Napier is the first who actually is. And Sorcha is fool enough to fall in love with him! Even if he could rid himself of that lunatic Frenchwoman, he has nothing to offer. Sorcha might as well marry a poacher.”
Fraser came up behind Dallas at her dressing table and put a hand on her bare neck. “Oh, lassie, how you forget! You came to our marriage bed with naught but bluster and bravado. Yet I managed to overlook it, and we’ve done quite well, all things considered.”
Dallas started to pull away, but caught her husband’s half-serious, half-mocking reflection in the mirror and leaned back against him. “That was different,” she grumbled, but her words lacked bite. “If Napier hasn’t come with an honorable proposal, why did he—they—come at all?”
“The Napiers dream of Catholic unity to ensure the Church’s viability. It’s a fragile hope, yet not impossible if we could all put petty differences aside.” Fraser stepped back, adjusting the cuff of one sleeve. “It would mean, of course, that we would have to reconcile with George Gordon.”
Dallas made a face in the mirror. “That seems too great a sacrifice, no matter how noble the cause.”
“Precisely.” He waited for Dallas to rise and gave her his arm. “But if we cling to old grudges and ancient feuds, we risk destruction by the Protestant oppressors. As the Napiers point out, our only hope is to stand together.”
“Protestant oppressors, indeed!” Dallas gave her damask skirts a s
wish. “Though what’s to choose between George Gordon and Johnny Grant? Has that wretched little pest taken his mindless men from the vicinity yet? If I thought they were still prowling about, it would spoil my appetite.”
“They may still be bothering our tenants,” Fraser admitted as they headed out into the hallway. “If nothing else, Johnny Grant is efficient.”
“I’d still like to know who passed on the information,” Dallas persisted. “Have we a traitor in our midst?”
Fraser shook his head as they descended the carpeted staircase past the grouping of family portraits commissioned some ten years earlier. “Not necessarily. Anyone with Protestant leanings could have seen them headed this way. I imagine such informers are well rewarded.”
Dallas was about to deliver her opinion of such grasping, weasel-like creatures when Armand d’Ailly rushed to meet them at the bottom of the staircase. “A most deplorable occurrence!” he cried, putting a hand on each of the Frasers’ shoulders. His usually impeccable appearance was marred by the blond hair hanging down over one eye; his dove-gray doublet was askew at the collar, and the links in the silver chain he wore around his neck were badly tangled. “I have just come from seeking blackberries for my sweet Ros—you know how she craves such things—and there, beside the road that leads to the burn, I found young Grant and his men riding away.”
“Good riddance,” said Dallas, and gave a sharp nod of approval.
“Oh, but no, no!” D’Ailly’s grip tightened on his in-laws. “With them was Mistress Sorcha! They have stolen her!”
Lord and Lady Fraser stared wordlessly at each other, then gaped at d’Ailly. “How did Sorcha come to be here?” Iain Fraser demanded.
D’Ailly lifted his palms upward in a helpless gesture. “I cannot guess. You will have to ask her serving girl and the young man who were left behind.”
Iain Fraser’s jaw hardened. He grabbed d’Ailly by the arm. “Where are those two?” he demanded, waving off Dallas’s attempt to interrupt.
“In the kitchen,” d’Ailly replied. “We came in that way. It was closer.”
An unusually pale Rosmairi clung to the banister several steps above them. “What’s happening? This entire day has been incredibly chaotic.”
D’Ailly took the stairs two at a time to rash to his wife’s side. She leaned against him, a hand on her bulging abdomen. “Even the bairn is distraught,” she complained. “Besides, it’s too hot.”
With soothing words, d’Ailly led her back up the stairs. Fraser, with Dallas at his heels, was already headed toward the kitchen. To their astonishment, Catriona was serving Ailis a mug of ale and bread with cheese, while a young man not yet twenty chewed hungrily on half of a cold chicken.
“ ’Tis Alexander—or is it Andrew?—McVurrich,” Dallas whispered.
Fraser wheeled on Ailis and whichever nephew the ravenous lad happened to be. Tersely, he requested the details of Sorcha’s alleged abduction by Johnny Grant. It was Ailis who responded, relating the incident with her usual economy of words. She and Sorcha, along with Andrew McVurrich, had ridden hard for three days from Edinburgh to warn Gavin Napier of possible danger from the Frenchwoman, Marie-Louise. As the weary trio finally drew within less than a mile of Gosford’s End, a troop of men had blocked the road. Recognizing Sorcha, Johnny Grant had commanded his men to seize her.
“He said,” Ailis recounted, choosing her words with precision, “that inasmuch as he believed that Lord and Lady Fraser were hiding seditious priests in some cunning place, he would hold Mistress Sorcha hostage until the priests were turned over to him as required by the King’s command.” Ailis stopped speaking and pursed her lips. “That is all he said, as best I can remember. Except,” she added on a note of disapproval, “for an ill-mannered remark about ‘coming to your senses.’ ”
“Fie,” breathed Dallas angrily. “Such monstrous arrogance.”
Fraser fingered the bridge of his hawklike nose and looked thoughtful. “How long ago did this happen, Ailis?”
Ailis tipped her head to one side. “Let me think—no more than half an hour.” She peered at Andrew McVurrich for confirmation; the lad nodded over his tankard, then accepted a bowl of raspberries and cream from Catriona.
Fraser slammed a fist onto the table, rattling the dishes and causing Andrew to look up from his berries. “I can guess where they’ve gone, but such a headstart hinders us considerably.”
“Perhaps,” suggested a mild voice from the corner by the butter churn, “you might wait for my brother to report back.”
The others all turned to stare at the inconspicuous figure of Father Adam Napier, seated in a straight-backed chair, a light woolen blanket thrown over his crippled legs. He cradled a tankard of Dutch beer in his hands and assumed an apologetic air. “I’m at fault for what has happened, of course. Had you turned me over to young Grant, it would have saved a great deal of trouble. It’s still not too late, you know.”
Her maternal instinct rushing to the fore, Dallas started to agree with him, but Iain Fraser strode to Father Adam’s side and placed a hand lightly on his shoulder. “We’ll do no such thing. Johnny Grant won’t harm Sorcha,” Fraser asserted, though he wished his inner conviction were as strong as his words. “Now tell us, Father, what did your brother plan to do?”
Adam Napier gave a little shake of his head. “I’m never sure what Gavin plans in such circumstances. He … improvises.” The priest uttered a self-deprecating chuckle. “He took Naxos, his own horse. He might overtake those ponies.”
Fraser weighed the priest’s words carefully. In the end, Magnus was summoned to confer with his father and his brother-in-law. However, young Andrew McVurrich was given the option of absenting himself from the family conclave. “You’re not a Fraser,” he was told by his uncle, “nor have you been brought up in the Catholic faith,”
But Andrew surprised them by declaring that he would stand fast with his Fraser kin. “Sorcha is my cousin,” he declared, setting his long jaw in affirmation. “While my sire may be a McVurrich and a presbyter, my Lady Mother is a Cameron, and Catholic to boot. She has always taught us that family keeps with family, and let the rest of the world go hang.”
Iain Fraser clapped the youth on the back and silently thanked Tarrill for her sense of kinship. Magnus arrived just after sunset, and along with Dallas and Rosmairi, the family joined Father Adam in the solarium, where they could view the last streaks of pale purple light fade over the rooftops of Inverness and disappear into the sea. Their discussion was lively as well as urgent. Dallas never veered from her determination to seek Sorcha’s swift and safe return, while Father Adam repeated his offer to surrender himself to the Grants. Iain Fraser and Magnus concentrated on rescuing Sorcha by force, while Armand d’Ailly extolled the virtues of negotiation. When Andrew grew excited at the prospect of possible armed confrontation, Rosmairi disagreed vehemently, asserting that the one factor everyone was overlooking was Sorcha herself.
“I’m confident that Sorcha is sufficiently resourceful to find a way out of this silly situation. Hasn’t it dawned on anyone else that Johnny Grant may be more embarrassed over being humiliated in front of Gavin Napier years ago than he is motivated by religious zeal?”
Rosmairi’s comments were duly considered, but Dallas’s determination remained fixed. “I care not for whys and wherefores,” she asserted, as a cool breeze stirred the new Flemish draperies. “I want my daughter back home. At once.”
No one in the room contradicted her; it was, despite the divergence of opinions on how to achieve such a goal, exactly what they all wanted most.
The candle wax collected in thick clumps on the twin candelabra that stood at each end of the refurbished mantel. Rosmairi dozed on Armand d’Ailly’s shoulder, and Father Adam’s face took on a pinched, careworn look. Andrew McVurrich turned silent, occasionally biting his fingernails. Only Lord and Lady Fraser and their eldest son talked on, while the gilt hands of the Austrian clock across the room edged close to midnight.
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br /> And still, Gavin Napier did not return.
The sweet, wild cry of the lav’rock called from the pinewood, and somewhere farther off, a dog howled at the risen moon. Sorcha yawned and grimaced at herself in the wavy mirror that hung above a solid but ugly oak dressing table. The room in which she was held prisoner was large enough and furnished adequately, but despite her weariness, she wasn’t in the mood for sleep. Only in the past hour, after supping on overdone beef and wrinkled peas, had her temper come under control. That Johnny Grant, of all people, should kidnap her in the name of religion was more aggravating than it was frightening. She had not wasted her breath on him during the arduous ride to the bank of the Spey, but once they had reached Johnny’s modest outpost, Sorcha had berated him and his followers with a stream of bitter reproach. Johnny’s response had been to have her hauled off bodily by two of his men and locked into the bedroom where she now paced in frustration. In truth, she had not been mishandled, and while she had first threatened to hurl the supper they’d brought in their faces, she’d finally decided that food was a better ally than malice.
The night had grown quite still; both bird and dog were silent. Sorcha had opened the window, with its square-shaped panes, many of which were cracked. From what she recalled of Johnny’s holdings, this was where the high country moor met the great green glens of Strath Spey. The building itself was a hunting lodge, situated close to Gordon property. This room was located on the second floor, facing the river. Leaning over the sill, she noted that heavy vines of ivy covered most of the stone facade, but even if she dared try climbing down to the ground, a guard was posted almost directly below her. Sorcha left the window open, for the room was musty, and the heat of the day still lingered.
Resignedly, she marched to the bed and tested the mattress. The straw was bunched up into clumps, and she began to pound the surface to distribute the stuffing more evenly. A knock at the door evoked an irritated grumble, but she moved briskly to inquire who her visitor might be. At least whoever it was hadn’t barged in. From the other side of the door, she heard Johnny Grant, sounding officious. The key scraped in the lock, but he waited for Sorcha to turn the knob.