by Mary Daheim
“Wouldn’t you rather have me do that than merely accept a loan?” Dallas felt she had regained the upper hand. “Besides, he’s not wild, I daresay he even eats with a fork.”
“Oh, Dallas!” Glennie blinked several times in a row, a sure sign that she was mightily upset.
Dallas came around to the side of the table where Glennie was sitting. “Nay, I didn’t sell my body to Iain Fraser,” she asserted, wincing slightly at the recollection of their physical encounter. “It’s a loan and we’ll pay it back as soon as ... as soon as ....” Suddenly Dallas didn’t want to broach the subject of their marriages. Glennie had not sufficiently recovered from the shock of losing both husband and father, and Tarrill certainly wouldn’t consider another man until the raw wound of Will Ruthven’s betrayal had healed. “Actually, I still have hopes of securing a court appointment for at least one of us,” Dallas went on hastily. “Iain Fraser might help us—after all, if we could serve the Queen, he’d get his money back.”
“If John Hamilton could exert no more effort than inviting us to a cancelled levee, what will Iain Fraser do?” Tarrill asked sarcastically.
“I’ve hardly had time to figure that out,” Dallas replied haughtily. “What with tutoring lame-witted pupils and peddling pies in the High Street, I’ve been a bit preoccupied. But it wasn’t John Hamilton’s fault the levee was cancelled and he isn’t the one who made us the loan.”
“It all sounds most strange to me,” Glennie said with disapproval.
“Strange or not, at least we have ten marks,” Dallas replied with an unexpected surge of self-satisfaction. With a brisk swish of her dowdy skirt, she padded barefoot from the room.
Early the next morning, Dallas was in the cellar, checking supplies and calculating precisely how Iain Fraser’s loan could be disbursed. Meat was definitely a priority; lard, too, and probably some sugar. But before she could complete her inventory, Glennie was calling to her from upstairs. Dallas replied that she would come up at once and was almost to the landing when she heard a familiar noise. Turning back, she listened intently. Yes, it was the same sound she’d heard in August, coming from under the cellar floor. And suddenly she remembered. Some years ago when she was a child her father had talked about passageways dug out under the city. Smugglers and pirates used them, to carry their illegal booty up from the Firth. The matter was underemphasized, however, lest the girls become apprehensive at the idea of evil men trooping about beneath their very floors. Over the years, most of the pirates and smugglers had been caught and the passages closed off, yet there must be one which was still in use. Not for smuggling, perhaps, but for some secret and probably illicit activity. Dare I? she asked herself, balancing precariously on the edge of the top stair. Could I find a way through our cellar into the passage and see where it leads? Dallas’s daring did not quite match her curiosity. Pirates and smugglers alike were said to be ruthless men, without mercy when it came to those who interfered with their livelihood. A whole armada of pirates could run like so many hares in heat under the Cameron house and would never entice Dallas into entering the passageway.
Hurrying up the stairs, Dallas was surprised to hear a man’s voice in the entry hall. To her astonishment, John Hamilton stood chatting with Glennie, his body muffled in a dark green cloak, which was held in place by a silver replica of his family crest.
“My lord!” Dallas cried in surprise. “How good to see you! You’ve met my eldest sister?”
Hamilton smiled broadly. “Aye, a pleasure.” He looked down at Glennie who seemed quite undone by a visit from such a great lord. “I was in the neighborhood and remembered you lived in Nairne’s Close. I would have come before but I’ve been on progress with the Queen. I’m sorry the levee was cancelled. Happily, Her Grace’s health improved.”
“How fortunate,” said Dallas, with a touch of asperity. She wished she’d done up her hair that morning and wasn’t wearing her dowdy, threadbare mourning gown. “Oh, sir, do come inside by the fire! You must be chilled right through.”
“Nay,” said Hamilton, stepping inside and stamping the snow from his brown leather boots. “It’s not so raw since the wind died down.”
Tarrill had appeared in the hallway and Hamilton greeted her in his outgoing manner. She insisted he share ale and collops with them in the sitting room. Dallas winced inwardly at the extravagance but realized they must be hospitable.
After Hamilton had recounted his sojourn north and the Queen’s reaction to her countrymen, he put down his tankard and looked at Dallas. “You recall that day in August when you sold me some of your father’s books?” Dallas said she certainly did. “Fine volumes, they are, mistress. But Master Forbes confided to me that you kept the best for yourself.” The brown eyes twinkled. “Certain histories of Scotland and Edinburgh which are hard to come by. Would I be impertinent to ask if I might buy another one or two?”
“Oh, take them as a gift!” Tarrill exclaimed. “We could not possibly let you pay, my lord!”
Dallas shot Tarrill a murderous glance. Damn her lip, she thought, the chit never did have enough sense to plug up a cat’s hole. But Hamilton was insistent. He must not accept such treasures as a gift, no matter how generously bestowed. Would three marks suffice?
Dallas all but gasped. He does feel sorry for us, she decided. He takes in our shabby clothes and the worn furnishings and no doubt has heard rumors of our hardship. He would see to us as he would to Lame Angus or any other poor beggar. Well, three marks were three marks, and along with Fraser’s loan would see them through the winter.
When Dallas returned from the library with the books, she found Hamilton, Glennie and Tarrill engaged in conversation about his family background. Hamilton admired the volumes, thanked her profusely, and discreetly handed over a small purse. Dallas was gracious but businesslike, as if she conducted such transactions every day. She turned the conversation back to the old Scots families as tactfully as she could, asking Hamilton not about his own, but of Iain Fraser’s ancestors.
“Iain Fraser?” Hamilton eyed her dubiously. “You know him?”
“Oh, aye,” Dallas answered nonchalantly. “I see him now and then.”
Hamilton set his tankard down on the small sturdy oak table next to his armchair. “He’s thought to have a reckless reputation with the ladies, you know.”
Dallas shrugged. “I know him but casually. I ask about him because of something my father said shortly before his death.” She explained briefly to Hamilton what her father had said while he was dying but did not add that Daniel Cameron had confided something to Fraser which no one else had heard. Hamilton listened attentively and then sat frowning into the fire. “Fraser’s history is relatively well known—at least the basic facts.”
“If you’d care to relate it, I’d be most interested,” Dallas coaxed.
Hamilton stretched his booted legs out towards the hearth. “Well, it all goes back to a house near Inverness, on the River Beauly where Malcolm Fraser brought his bride, Catherine McKim.” He linked his fingers behind his head and settled back to tell the tale. The fire snapped in the grate, Marthe padded in to refill the ale tankards, as Tarrill curled up on the settle, her cheek resting on one hand, and Glennie’s knitting needles fell into the rhythm of Hamilton’s narrative.
“Young Catherine was a sweet lassie and Malcolm was a fine figure of a man though possessed of a violent temper. Soon word was out that Catherine was with child. Yet instead of happily accepting the well-wishes of his friends and family, Malcolm Fraser turned sullen. Everyone thought Fraser must believe Catherine wasn’t carrying his bairn. Suddenly she disappeared while rumor swept the countryside that she had died, even that Fraser had murdered her.”
Hamilton paused to take a drink from his tankard. The girls sat in rapt attention, waiting for him to resume the story. “Several months passed and the next thing everybody knew, Malcolm Fraser had a fine son—but no wife. The story came out in bits and pieces; he had sent his wife to a convent to bear the
child, the child he was convinced had been fathered by another man. He had told her he never wanted to see her or the bairn again. But Catherine died when the child was born and the good sisters were unable to keep him, having no wet nurse at the convent. Fraser at first refused to bring the bairn into his home, but other members of his family insisted. Then, one evening Malcolm rowed out onto Beauly Firth with the bairn. It was a rough, wild night and the boat tipped over. The wet nurse Malcolm had with him—a fact that belies the gossip of his intention to drown the babe—was strong as an Amazon. She saved the child but Malcolm Fraser drowned. Later, she said he was taking the child to some relatives and had no evil intentions. In any event, the bairn did end up with some of his relations at Strath Farrar.”
Tarrill murmured something about it all being quite fascinating but Dallas remained silent for some time. Her curiosity was piqued: How had her Cameron father learned who had sired an illegitimate Fraser? It was more than puzzling, it was downright mysterious.
“I know little more of Fraser until he came to court about eight years ago,” Hamilton said as Glennie refilled his tankard. “He had gone to the University of St. Andrews. I believe a wealthy clansman provided for his education. Then he served Marie de Guise until she died and after that he left Scotland. He went to France, as I recall, to present himself to Mary Stuart and then he traveled abroad, returning a few months before Her Grace’s arrival.”
“His fortunes seem to have improved over the years,” commented Dallas. “Mungo Tennant’s house could not have been bought cheap.”
“Perhaps and perhaps not.” Hamilton took a deep draught from his tankard. “The rumors about Mungo Tennant may have reduced the price. Not everyone would want a house said to possess a torture chamber. Still, Fraser lives exceedingly well, and frankly, I’m not sure how he manages.”
Glennie rose to poke the fire. “Well, I’m glad he does. His early life must have been very sad.”
Hamilton shrugged. “No doubt his kinsmen gave him their affection. If not, he’s more than made up for it since reaching manhood. Women dote on him, though he’s yet to take a wife.”
“Neither have you, sir,” Dallas put in pertly and then bit her tongue. “Oh, I only meant ....”
But Hamilton astonished her once again. He put out his hand and grasped hers firmly. “Don’t fash yourself, mistress. You are quite right. But then I don’t make a habit of seducing maids with honeyed words:”
Dallas flushed as Hamilton’s brown eyes stayed fixed on her face. Tarrill stifled a giggle from her place by the hearth, but Hamilton was quite serious and did not relinquish Dallas’s gaze until he also relinquished her hand. Marthe bustled in again, to offer sesame cakes, and the mood became quite festive. Dallas thought no more of the past that afternoon.
Chapter 4
Two days later Dallas headed out into the wintry November sunlight to see Iain Fraser. She had considered asking John Hamilton about securing an introduction to court again but had decided that as kind and gracious as he seemed, Fraser was a more appropriate choice. Besides, she was now determined to learn what her father had told Fraser; it seemed strange to Dallas that he had ever kept a secret from his favorite daughter. Fraser might have put her off once already, but Dallas felt she had a right to know the truth.
Dallas walked briskly up the well-swept front steps and banged the brass knocker. After what seemed like an eternity, the door swung open and a short, rotund man of about sixty stood before her. He was dressed in servant’s clothes and had very small light eyes. His face was quite florid and the veins were broken in his cheeks. Drink, decided Dallas, and hoped he was sober enough now.
“I must see Iain Fraser,” she announced imperiously. “At once.”
The man grinned at Dallas but shook his head. Two tufts of grey hair danced atop his head. “Nay, lassie, that canna be. Master Fraser is gone from the city.”
Dallas was crestfallen. It had never occurred to her that Fraser might not be home. “Oh.” She stuffed her chilled hands inside her cloak. “When will he return?”
The man shrugged. “Who knows? What man can say when the rains will fall and the winds will blow? A week, two, a month—I dinna ken.” He shrugged again.
Dallas considered for a moment, then reluctantly decided that she would have to come back later and hope to find Fraser at home. But her hesitation had not gone unnoticed by the serving man. “Is it that dire for you to see him, lassie?” For the first time, she caught the reek of whiskey on his breath as he leaned forward confidentially.
“Most certainly not,” she snapped, reverting to her imperious manner. “ ‘Tis strictly business.” And with that she turned on her heel, narrowly avoiding a fall off the stoop. “Silly old sot!” she muttered as the serving man cackled gleefully from the doorway.
Dallas did return, twice during the following week. But each time the serving man, whose name was Kennedy, gave her the same information and the same leer.
On her fourth attempt, she left late in the afternoon, having been busy all day with grinding corn for meal and mending worn bedsheets. She had already made up her mind that this trip would be her last—she would leave a note for Fraser and then he could contact her upon his return. Kennedy’s attitude had become just too much to bear.
The big handsome house looked the same, with the snow drifting on the solid stone windowsills and the Flemish glass panes reflecting the dying afternoon light. It seemed to Dallas that more candles than usual burned from inside the house, but perhaps that was merely because she had come late in the day.
Once more Dallas climbed the short flight of stone stairs and once more she pulled at the knocker. But this time Kennedy was not the one who opened the door. Instead, a somewhat younger man of medium height and stocky build looked out at her from clear blue eyes. A thatch of bristly red hair fell over his broad forehead and he was dressed not as a servant, but in good yeoman’s clothing, topped by a shiny new leather jerkin.
“I’ve come to see Iain Fraser,” she announced, recovering quickly from her surprise.
“I’m sorry, mistress, but he’s not at home,” he replied politely. Dallas let out a deep breath of disappointment; somehow she had expected the man to have a different answer for her. “But,” he continued, before she could respond, “he’ll be back shortly. Perhaps you’d care to wait inside?”
Dallas peered beyond the man into the entry hall. Candles flickered from the draught of the open door, a Moorish carpet covered most of the floor, and a Gobelin tapestry depicting the Judgment of Paris hung from one wall. It all looked highly respectable and very elegant. “Yes, I’ll wait,” she told the man and stepped over the threshold.
They passed through the entry hall and into a small parlor, some sort of supper room, Dallas decided. Damp wood sputtered on the grate and a finely wrought supper table inlaid with mother-of-pearl was set for one. “Be seated, mistress,” said the man, indicating a velvet-trimmed chair of intricate design. “May I tell Master Fraser your name when he returns?”
Dallas was absorbed by the room and its rich trappings. She had never been surrounded by so much luxury all at once. “What?” She started from her reverie. “Oh, aye, I’m Mistress Cameron of Nairne’s Close. Master Fraser knows me.”
The man’s gaze wasn’t as offensive as Kennedy’s, but the reaction was similar. She bristled and was about to add something by way of defending her honor when the man made a little bow of amends: “I’m Cummings, mistress, at your service. I will leave you now, but should you want anything, pray pull this bell-cord.” He indicated a long wine-colored piece of fabric by the door.
Dallas nodded as Cummings withdrew. As soon as the door was closed she rose from the velvet chair and began prowling the room. She paused to examine a small gold-leaf clock, an ornate jewel-encrusted crucifix and an almost life-sized marble bust of a Roman emperor. Augustus? Probably, Dallas decided. She moved over by the fireplace where the wet wood had finally caught and now burned evenly in the grate. Holy Mothe
r, Dallas thought, Fraser said he could afford to be generous and it’s obvious from all these sumptuous furnishings that he was right. But how has he accumulated such wealth? Dallas wished fervently she could learn his secret and apply it to her own situation.
The little gold-leaf clock had just chimed in with the church bells outside to announce six when Kennedy opened the door. “Cummings thought you might be hungry, mistress,” he said with his knowing grin. “Could I bring you aught?”
Dallas’s initial reaction was to refuse but her dinner of dried salt pork and boiled potatoes at noon had left her famished this late in the day. Furthermore, she knew Iain Fraser’s fare must be considerably more lavish than what poor Marthe was forced to cook. Fraser’s loan and Hamilton’s payment for the books would not last forever and she hoarded them closely.
“Yes, perhaps I’ll have ....” Dallas’s voice trailed off as visions of all sorts of delicacies paraded through her imagination.
Kennedy must have guessed her dilemma. “A little capon and honey bread with a side dish of pickled pears might tide ye over, eh, lass?”
Pleasure filtered into Dallas’s eyes. “Oh, yes, I should like that very much. And one other thing,” she added before Kennedy could disappear into the hall, “could you please send someone to my house in Nairne’s Close to tell them I will be detained?”
Kennedy went over to a wall cabinet and pulled out a drawer. He set out writing materials for Dallas and waited as she composed a brief note. “I’m visiting Iain Fraser,” she wrote rapidly. “I may be rather late so don’t wait up. I’m quite safe and supping here.” She folded the note over twice and gave it to Kennedy.
“I’ll send a lad,” he said and was gone.
When the food arrived, Dallas ate ravenously. She felt a twinge of guilt when she thought of how Glennie and Tarrill and Marthe and the boys had to make do with the leek soup that had been simmering on the hob all day. But somehow she’d make it up to them, she thought hazily, pushing her plate away and stretching out in the chair. It was after seven now and the full meal, the warm room and the long wait were beginning to take their toll. Briefly, she perused the few books in the room, but they were mostly geography tomes or tracts on the New World, and none of them captured her imagination. At last, tired and bored, she sat down in the velvet-covered chair and in a few minutes she was fast asleep.