by Amanda Scott
Margaret came alone, saying that Megan was indisposed but would be up and about in no time, since her affliction did not seem to be a serious one. She laughed when Mary Kate explained her problem, and said, “If that isn’t just like Adam! I suppose you ought to be grateful that he gave you a few days’ notice. He might just as easily have sent a message at noon to say that Jamie would arrive to sup at five.”
Mary Kate was unnerved at the thought. “Godamercy, I don’t even know how to prepare for next week!”
“That should not be difficult,” Margaret said. “Is Johnny Graham anywhere near at hand?”
“Why, I don’t know,” Mary Kate admitted. “He has scarcely ever been around before, so I never gave him a thought.”
“Well, give him one now, because very likely he is the solution to your predicament.”
A gillie was dispatched at once to discover Mr. Graham’s whereabouts, and that young man entered the parlor in person five minutes later. Mary Kate had no sooner put the question to him than her worries were over.
“I shall see to everything, my lady,” he said. “You need trouble your head about it no longer. I shall present all my lists to you for your approval, of course, including the guest list and the menu, but beyond that you may trust everything to my judgment.”
Mary Kate thanked him, conscious of a wish that all her troubles might be resolved so easily, and in the days that followed, Johnny Graham and Mrs. Comfort organized all the details of her supper party with experienced ease. She had only to approve the results of their industry and to choose what she would wear.
Graham left a tentative menu for her perusal the very next morning, and she had just decided to give it her enthusiastic approval when the parlor door was thrown open with more flourish than usual.
“Lady Aberfoyle, mistress!” The gillie’s announcement barely preceded the entrance of a quick, little, gray-haired woman in a rustling, lace-trimmed, puce-silk dress cut high to a wide ruff and long to her lace-covered wrists. Her full skirt billowed over pink petticoats and an immense French farthingale, and the layered-leather heels of her mules clicked a tattoo beneath it as she crossed the hardwood floor toward Mary Kate, who scrambled to her feet with more haste than grace.
“Aunt, wherever did you spring from? Adam told me you were out of town.”
“Sir Adam, my dear, not ‘Adam’ when you speak of him to me,” Lady Aberfoyle reproved briskly. “You might have said ‘my husband’ or perhaps simply ‘Douglas,’ but never only ‘Adam.’”
Mary Kate smiled fondly. “I beg your pardon, Aunt.”
“That is not necessary, my dear. ’Tis merely that polite society demands certain conventions of us all, and there are those amongst us who continue to insist upon observing the proprieties despite the unhappy tendency at Holyrood to ignore them. How do you fare, child? Are you in an interesting state of health as yet?” Her ladyship ignored the fiery blushes caused by her question and seated herself with little heed for her voluminous skirts, her bright blue eyes fixed steadily upon her niece as she waited for her reply.
Mary Kate fought down her blushes. “We have not been married very long, Aunt Aberfoyle.”
“Long enough. And ’tis best to begin the business as quickly as may be. In point of fact, getting married in such a scrambling fashion might give some folk pause to think—”
“Aunt! Surely, you never—”
“Of course I did not, but I had to make mention of it, did I not? Now I can put the long-noses in their places with a clear conscience. Are you going to offer me refreshment?”
Repressing an urge to be flippant, Mary Kate quickly begged her pardon again and sent for ale and biscuits. During the next half hour, on her best behavior, she managed to hold her own against her aunt’s fond inquisition, issued a personal invitation to the forthcoming supper party, and even remembered to ask after her uncle.
After Lady Aberfoyle had departed, Mary Kate found Johnny Graham behind a huge, battered, old desk in the room he called his office. Having formally approved his menu, she told him that her aunt had accepted their invitation.
“Thank you, my lady,” he responded cheerfully. “Perhaps, you will just cast your eye over the guest list now, to see that no one has been forgotten.”
She agreed and discovered only one name that caused her any dismay. “Sir Reginald Somerville? Surely, he has not yet arrived in Edinburgh?”
“No, my lady, but Sir Adam expects him any day now, so his name must be included.”
“Of course.” But she was thinking frantically that he was arriving too soon. The days had flown by since their arrival in town, and she had no idea yet what Lord Strachan meant to say to Megan’s husband. That afternoon she discussed the matter with her two confidants, who had come to bear her company while she finished the embroidery for her ruff for the wedding.
The roses were back in Megan’s cheeks, and she appeared to be completely well again. She nodded when Mary Kate warned her that Somerville was expected to attend their supper party.
“I had a message from him this morning,” she said with a little sigh. “He thinks I have imposed upon my uncle’s hospitality long enough and gave instructions to open Somerville House at once. I shall remove there tomorrow.”
“My father has said nothing about what he means to do,” Margaret put in, answering Mary Kate’s unspoken question. “I have not the least notion what he will say to Sir Reginald.”
“Nor do I,” said Megan.
“Well, I think you ought to ask him,” Mary Kate said practically.
The other two stared at her in blank dismay.
“You’re raving,” Margaret said. “You don’t know my father very well yet or you would know better than to suggest such a course of action.”
“I couldn’t possibly ask him,” Megan said, adding with an odd little smile, “I don’t believe matters will be so bad as I had feared, though.”
The others gazed at her expectantly, but she would say no more. Lord Strachan, too, kept his own counsel, so that by the evening of the Douglas supper party, the young ladies were no wiser than they had been before.
That evening came all too soon, and shortly before five o’clock, Mary Kate descended the main stair to the front hall with her husband. Douglas looked sleek and elegant in a beige velvet doublet and hose slashed with emerald silk. A tawny, shanks-trimmed cloak was thrown back from his shoulders; the hilt of his dress sword, worn at his left side, was decked with jewels; and he wore a gold-and-emerald disk on a heavy gold chain around his neck.
He was in a good mood, and Mary Kate, her right hand resting lightly upon his forearm, felt more at ease with him than she had felt since her arrival in Edinburgh. His arm was warm beneath her fingertips, and she could not resist giving it a gentle squeeze. When she looked up from under her thick lashes to find him smiling down at her, she felt a stirring in her body that made her wish she had the nerve to ask him to take her back upstairs. Not that he would, of course, she reflected. Not with the king expected at any moment. But perhaps later, after everyone had gone…perhaps then he might be receptive to enjoying some conversation with her.
Having discovered beforehand what he meant to wear, she had chosen a purled velvet gown of lustrous dark gold that emphasized the golden highlights in her hair. The dress was adorned with a collar of magnificent emeralds, and she wore matching bracelets upon her wrists. Her cap was likewise decorated with emeralds. Perhaps, she mused, it was still not so much jewelry as he would have liked her to wear, but she need not worry too much about that, for his eyes had lighted at the sight of her and she knew she looked magnificent.
The hall was still empty, so she excused herself to oversee preparations in the dining room. The white cloth had been laid upon the long table, and two pantlers were busily laying out square trenchers of fine pewter, silver-handled knives, and silver spoons. No guest in the Douglas house would have to supply his own utensils.
The smell of roasting meats wafted to her from the k
itchens when another servant entered with two huge platters of cold delicacies for the first course. He set them on the sideboard, and Mary Kate was tempted to help herself to a marchpane ball or a slice of Italian soft cheese, but she decided against it, knowing Douglas must be wondering what was keeping, her.
She returned to the hall just as the first guests were announced. The king arrived not long afterward, and the party was soon in full sway. At half-past six o’clock they adjourned to the dining room, where ale, French wines, and good Scotch whiskey flowed abundantly from the first course onward, and the gathering became correspondingly more jovial as the time passed.
By the time the fish course was served, the party was a merry one indeed. A pottage of haddock served with sweet almond butter was followed by plates of red herring, salted eel, broiled chines of salmon, baked turbot, and lamprey fritters. The food throughout was plain and plentiful, just as King James liked it, but there were sauces aplenty for those who required them, and Mary Kate, meeting her husband’s warm gaze, knew every dish was well prepared. Johnny Graham, Mrs. Comfort, and their helpers had done an excellent job, she decided. She must remember to thank them all.
Once the gathering had adjourned to the large ground-floor withdrawing room, where the butler and his minions were ladling out spiced ale and mulled wine to those who cared for such drinks, Mary Kate felt that at last she could relax and enjoy herself. Almost at once, Ned approached, bringing her a mug of mulled claret.
“Your first Edinburgh supper party appears to be a success, my lady.”
“Thank you, sir,” she replied demurely. “How do you find life at court?”
He grinned at her. “Amusing. There is something happening every minute. But I confess, there are moments when I miss the peace and quiet of his lordship’s bookroom.”
“You are jesting.”
“I promise, I am not. ’Tis the damnedest thing—begging your pardon.”
“Unnecessary.” She cocked her head curiously. “Do not tell me that you would prefer to return to Strachan Court.”
Laughing, he shook his head. “Perhaps not.”
“Good evening, Lady Douglas.” Kenneth Gillespie nodded briefly to Ned, then continued as though the younger man weren’t there at all, “Do we dance tonight, my lady?”
“I do not know, sir. The musicians will begin playing again shortly, but as to dancing, that must depend as always upon the king’s pleasure.”
“Of course.” He glanced haughtily at Ned. “Leave us, lad. I wish to be private with her ladyship.”
Abashed by this high-handed treatment from an older and more experienced courtier, Ned made a hasty bow and departed.
Mary Kate was amused, but she did not hesitate to scold Gillespie. “That was not kind of you, sir. He has been a good friend to me.”
“Not as good a friend as I should like to be, I hope.” His voice was husky, and he reached to take her hand in his. “I would prefer more privacy than this, you know. You are always my delight, dear lady, but tonight you sparkle like golden treasure. Your eyes are more brilliant than the gems at your throat and wrists, and your lips remind me of prize rubies. Age-old phrases, mayhap, and I trust you will forgive my inability to turn an original one, but these are well-worn only because they are so damnably apt. And your hair…let me see if I can do better with your hair. Not spun sugar or gold, but—”
“Hush, sir,” Mary Kate interrupted quickly, pulling her hand free and shooting a quick, sidelong glance to either side to see who might be near enough to overhear him. “You must not say such things to me. I am a married lady.”
“Nonsense, my dear. Married ladies need to hear such things just as much as unmarried ladies do. Mayhap even more so. I’ll warrant your husband, fool that he is, does not whisper pretty things in your lovely ear.”
“Sir Adam is not a fool,” she declared hotly.
“Then, he does say such things to you?”
She hesitated too long and read derision in his eyes.
“Exactly. I have observed his neglect of you, you know. He is unquestionably a fool.” He paused again, letting his words sink in, then added softly, persuasively, “I have heard that this house boasts a lovely garden. Mayhap you would be kind enough to show it to me.”
“’Tis too dark out now,” she protested, flustered.
“There is a moon.”
“I dare not, sir. ’Twould be too much remarked upon.”
“Let them remark. ’Tis nothing out of the way, and surely Douglas does not deserve to keep you entirely to himself.”
“Why, what can you mean by such talk, sir?”
“Look yonder, lassie.” He gestured to where Douglas stood in laughing conversation with the king and several others. Mary Kate had expected her husband to approach her when everyone rose from the table. Instead, there he was, standing with a lovely young woman whose name she could not presently call to mind. The young woman’s hand rested possessively upon his forearm, and he appeared to be entirely responsive to her smiling eyes. He even gave her hand an affectionate pat a moment later as he looked down into her face to speak to her. James made a comment, and everyone in the group laughed.
Mary Kate’s eyes flashed. “Perhaps the air is too close in here, after all, sir. A brief turn about the garden will provide a welcome change.”
“As you say, mistress. The fresh air will aid our digestion more than this wine will.” He took her mug from her and handed it to a passing gillie, then tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, and they walked thus companionably through a small anteroom to a pair of tall French doors, and out into the garden,
As he had predicted, a moon just past its prime cast a gentle, eerie light upon shrubbery and trees. The night was still except for an occasional cricket’s trill or the murmur of a bird. No breeze disturbed the leaves. Music and laughter drifted from the house, but with the doors closed, the sound had a distant, muted quality. The garden was unoccupied.
Exceptionally conscious of Gillespie’s nearness, Mary Kate felt a twinge of guilt as the impropriety of her defiant gesture was rapidly borne in upon her. Reluctant now, she allowed him to proceed, but when he turned off the main path, she halted.
“We must go back, sir.”
“In a moment,” he murmured. “Let us walk a little farther first.” His hand closed over hers, and he urged her on a few more steps. They were out of sight of the house now.
Feeling desperate, Mary Kate dug her heels into the dirt path, forcing him to stop. “Please, sir, I ought not to have come out here with you.”
“Do you not trust me, Mary Kate?”
Well, of course she did not trust him, she thought, behaving as he was, but somehow it seemed both foolish and discourteous to tell him so after she had agreed to come out with him. “My husband will be vexed, sir.”
Too late did she recall Margaret’s warning. Mary Kate knew that it would not weigh with Douglas that his own behavior had prompted her acceptance of Gillespie’s invitation. He would be concerned only with her conduct, nothing more. Bitterly, and likewise belatedly, did she remember her resolve to do nothing whatever to give him further cause for complaint.
“We must return.” She spoke urgently but quietly, feeling a sudden, unexplainable need to whisper.
He, too, spoke in an undertone, turning to face her. “If you insist, my lady, although I doubt there be cause for alarm. Mayhap,” he added more gruffly, “you would favor me with just one kiss before we go inside?”
She fought down angry blushes, more conscious than ever of her vulnerable position. Gillespie had every advantage should he choose to force his attentions upon her. “I will not, sir,” she said, striving to keep fear from her voice. “You must not ask such a thing of me.”
He placed his hands upon her shoulders. “I cannot help myself.” His voice throbbed with restrained passion, and she knew she had made a dreadful mistake by coming out with him. He began to draw her closer, his strength outmatching hers when she resisted, and she
could not bring herself to oppose him more vehemently lest the noise of a struggle invite discovery. His grip was relentless. In order to avoid the impending pressure of his lips against her own, she turned her face away and then went perfectly still, her eyes growing big with shock at the sight of her husband standing at the intersection of the two paths.
Douglas stood there, his feet planted wide, his arms folded across his broad chest, grimly watching them. “I must ask you to unhand my wife, sir,” he said. His voice was tight as though he exerted every effort to keep from bellowing, and his eyes glittered dangerously in the moonlight, bringing Mary Kate a swift, clear memory of his reaction the afternoon he had found her alone in her father’s garden with Robin MacLeod. How, she wondered, could she have forgotten that moment until now?
Gillespie’s hands fell away from her shoulders, and as he took a hasty step backward, his right hand shot for his dress sword, only to arrest itself midmotion when Douglas shook his head and said regretfully, “Do not draw your weapon, sir. I’ve no wish to spit you here in my garden with His Majesty but a hundred feet away.” He stepped aside and gestured toward the main path. “I should take it favorably, however, if you would return to the house and grant me a moment alone with my wife.”
His basilisk gaze shifted to Mary Kate and she shivered with a sudden chill. She sensed rather than heard Gillespie’s quickly indrawn breath.
“Her ladyship will not want me to abandon her to your tender mercies, Douglas,” he said grimly. “I believe we should all return together.”
“Christ’s wounds, man,” Douglas snapped, “don’t be a fool! If we return together, ’twill call attention to the matter, which is precisely what I wish to avoid.”