by Mary Daheim
Though she smiled with relief and gratitude, Dallas wished Hamilton hadn’t shown her yet another example of his kindness. Why, she asked herself, did he have to be so damnably good? She started to thank him, but he motioned to cut her short.
“Send a note to Gavin’s house when you’re ready to leave. And for God’s sake, take care.” He stepped towards her, started to take her in his arms, then let his hands drop to his sides. “Now I must leave, Dallas. You will think of me from time to time?”
The lump in her throat made it hard to speak. “Oh, yes, yes,” she answered low. “I could never forget you, John. Never. You have given me great joy.”
“And sorrow.” He lifted one hand to touch her hair, let his fingers linger there for a moment as he gazed into her eyes, and then murmured, “Farewell, my own dear love,” and was gone.
Chapter 19
The highlands in late summer revealed their wonders to Dallas in a ceaseless panorama of green, brown and blue. The country through which she traveled with MacPherson and Chisholm was different from the Gordon lands she had visited with the court two years earlier. Along Loch Lochy, crested mountains fringed the horizon, casting morning shadows on the undulating blue water. Some of the burns ran a clear brown and occasionally Dallas would catch the silver flash of a salmon cutting against the current. So this was Cameron country, she marveled, and felt an atavistic stirring of her blood.
In late August the heather was beginning to ripen, making brilliant claret splashes against the hillsides. Often Dallas would glimpse a peaty waterfall, tumbling down between huge round boulders to disappear among great stands of pine and birch.
Occasionally they would meet a Cameron, startling him as much as they startled the grouse which flew nervously up from the moors. But as Dallas knew no Gaelic and the natives knew little Scots, she never spoke directly to any of her kin. Once, Chisholm managed to engage one of the Highlanders in a conversation when they paused for the night at one of the few hostelries along the route. He told the man that Dallas was a Cameron by birth.
“Hard to believe,” the man had replied in his native tongue, “so fancily got up. She’d not survive long in the Highlands.”
Most nights they slept under the stars, grateful that the weather remained warm and clear. They had taken the longer route on their journey to Beauly, since Cameron country itself was primarily high, rocky ground. By traveling along Loch Lochy and Loch Ness, they were able to keep to a lower, more level elevation.
At last, into Fraser country, on the eighth day of their expedition, they rode past the red sandstone bulk of Beaufort Castle, home of the Fraser chieftain. Fording the River Beauly, they asked a passing herdsman for directions. Warily, the man gave up the information after being proffered a coin by MacPherson.
As the late August sun dropped behind Beauly Manor, the sky turned from blue, to lavender, to crimson and then to a golden glow. The house itself was two-storied, of a tawny stone quarried nearby at Strathpeffer. Not quite half a century old, it had been built by Malcolm Fraser’s father. Set among yew and beech trees, clusters of rhododendron bushes flanked the exterior and the scent of honeysuckle hung on the evening air.
When Dallas announced herself to a retainer who was outside rounding up a litter of collie pups, she received the first hint of what her reception might be like. The servant said nothing but merely shooed the dogs inside and left the new arrivals standing on the flagstone walk.
“Doesn’t he speak Scots either?” Dallas asked in exasperation. She was weary, dirty and more than a little anxious about seeing her son for the first time in almost six months.
Chisholm, the shorter and more loquacious of her companions, just shrugged. “Hard to say, my lady. Highlanders are a strange breed, and as I’m one myself, I can rightly say so. They’re as independent as any great lord, having never known master nor serfdom. A law unto themselves, as my sire always said.”
Dallas silently agreed with that statement. It fitted her husband perfectly. She thought she understood him a little better after these past few days of traversing the Highlands. The restlessness, the arrogance, the intensity that went into Fraser’s personality all seemed to emanate from these hills and glens, the mountains and forests. Yet there was one other thing she knew about the Highlander: He always returned home.
The heavy door opened and a slim woman with prematurely white hair stepped outside. She was half a head taller than Dallas and about fifteen years older. Eyes as blue as any Highland loch gazed out from under straight, silver brows.
“My lady,” she said in a husky voice, “I could scarce believe my ears when Niall told me you were here. Oh, but you should not have come!”
It was the last thing Dallas wanted to hear, but the first thing she’d expected. “You are Sorcha MacSymond?”
The other woman nodded, worrying her lower lip with her upper teeth. “Truly, I cannot ask you in. Your—Iain would never approve!”
Dallas considered several options, including a swoon at Sorcha’s feet, a heartfelt plea on behalf of motherhood, an enormous bribe, and threatening to kill herself on the spot. Instead, she drew upon the oldest Highland tradition of all:
“So you’d refuse a Cameron hospitality, Sorcha Fraser MacSymond? And how many times has that meant bloodshed along The Aird?”
Sorcha flushed to the roots of her white hair. “So you are a Highlander after all? Very well. But just this one night.” She turned away and led them into Beauly Manor.
Magnus was asleep by the time Dallas had supped and washed. He lay nestled in a sturdy birch cradle, under the lightest of lambswool blankets. Dallas could hardly refrain from picking him up and holding him tight against her breast.
“He has two teeth and is beginning to crawl,” Sorcha whispered with great pride. “See his hair, is it not black as the night corbie?”
Dallas was too overcome to reply. The hair was dark as Iain’s but beginning to thicken in a way which reminded her of her own heavy mane. One little fist lay outflung on the blanket and the change from infancy to babyhood made Dallas grieve for the months of separation.
After the two women had watched the babe in silence for at least five minutes, Sorcha led Dallas from the nursery. “He is a wondrous bairn,” she said as they walked down the hall to the room where Dallas would spend the night. “Mayhap I should not have let you see him, but Iain did not so specify.”
“What did Iain specify?” Dallas asked, unable to suppress a note of asperity.
“That you would never take him from Beauly,” Sorcha replied, opening the door of a plainly furnished but comfortable corner bedchamber. “I suspect he never thought you’d come here.”
Dallas sniffed at how badly Fraser had underestimated her. But she decided it would not be wise to speak disparagingly of him in front of Sorcha. His cousin must be handled carefully if Dallas was to attain her goal. “I love my child very much,” Dallas said simply. “What mother wouldn’t?”
It was Sorcha’s turn to hold her tongue. “If you’d like to bathe, I’ll have water sent up. Meanwhile, the servants are taking care of the horses so they’ll be ready when you set out in the morning.”
“We’re most grateful,” Dallas said with what she hoped was a diffident smile. “Yes, a bath would be most refreshing.” As for the horses and the morrow, Dallas thought to herself, she’d keep to her promise of living one day at a time.
The simplest ruse, of course, was a minor illness. When informed that Lady Fraser had kept to her bed that morning, Sorcha hurried upstairs to inquire about her unwanted guest’s welfare.
“It’s nothing serious, I’ll be fine by tomorrow,” Dallas said with a brave smile. “I was very ill last March, I almost died. So on occasion, I have these bouts of passing weakness.”
Sorcha MacSymond had as natural a curiosity as most women. “Truly? What happened?” She shuddered and pulled a chair up next to the bed.
Dallas was relieved that she could speak in honesty. “Oh, aye, it was ghastly! I
was fleeing England with the babe, and the roads were all but impassable due to a late winter storm at Durham. I nearly bled to death before we reached Strathmuir. Thank the good Lord for a wonderfully enlightened physician from Lanark!” Dallas sank back into the pillows with a great sigh only partially feigned at the vivid recollection. But she was watching Sorcha closely to see how much the other woman knew of those terrible days in March.
“Great heavens, it sounds dreadful!” Sorcha fanned herself with her hand, for this last day of August had turned very close. Somewhere off in the western hills, a thunderstorm was brewing. “I knew you had been in England, but nothing of your illness. Iain—well, Iain did not say a great deal while he was here.”
“I see,” Dallas said without inflection. She let her eyelids droop down to indicate drowsiness. “Oh, mistress, I’m so weary!”
Sorcha got up immediately. “Forgive me, I’ll let you sleep. I had no idea you’d been so ill!” As Dallas began breathing deeply, Sorcha tiptoed from the room.
About noon Sorcha returned, opening the door very cautiously so as not to waken Dallas in case she was still asleep. Dallas had in fact slept for an hour or so, but more from boredom than weariness. Although she had been awake since midmorning, she feigned several yawns and a sleepy-eyed expression when Sorcha returned.
“I’m much refreshed, don’t fash yourself. I just awakened,” Dallas said with a tremulous smile. “Sit there, by the bed, I don’t want you waiting on me.”
Sorcha MacSymond found her guest quite disconcerting. When she had learned that Iain had married a Cameron, her Highland blood had reacted in traditional fashion: No good could come of such a union. Yet when he had come to Beauly after being wounded at Corrichie Moor, Iain had seemed well content with his bride. He had not spoken of her in detail, but when he mentioned Dallas’s name, it was usually accompanied by a smile or fond reference. Then, when he had arrived in late March with the babe, his attitude was totally changed. He had not talked about his wife at all except to tell Sorcha that he no longer wanted the baby to remain with his mother. Naturally, Sorcha’s worst fears had been confirmed: Bringing a two-month old bairn to the Highlands in inclement weather was risky, and Sorcha had been convinced that only the direst of circumstances would have compelled Iain to behave in such a manner.
Yet during the month he had stayed at Beauly, Iain had never explained his reason for bringing the child north. He’d talked about his adventures in London, his imprisonment in the Tower, his escape and return to Scotland—but never about his wife. He spent considerable time with the babe, however, and it had touched Sorcha’s heart to watch the tall, dark arrogant man cuddle the tiny bairn and try to make him smile.
When at last he had made ready to ride from Beauly to the Isle of Lewes, he had seemed reluctant to bid Magnus farewell. Sorcha had had to reassure him at least a dozen times that she and the wet nurse Fraser had engaged would see that no harm befell the babe. She had also promised that Dallas would never be permitted to take the child away from Beauly.
Now that Sorcha had met Dallas, she was puzzled. Iain’s wife seemed deeply fond of the babe. She appeared to be kindhearted and considerate. She was bonnie, too, in an unruly, unusual way. Sorcha’s curiosity, which had merely been ignited by previous speculations, now flamed to inferno proportions.
“Perhaps,” Dallas was saying from among the pillows, “I can hold Magnus before I leave. Surely Iain wouldn’t be so cruel as to deny me that?”
Sorcha felt mesmerized by the big dark eyes. “I—well, no, I can’t imagine any objections.” But she could, knowing Iain’s capacity for anger when his wishes weren’t obeyed. Still, what harm in it, since Dallas would be gone from Beauly by morning? “Will you return to Edinburgh?” she asked.
The sigh which Dallas emitted conveyed both despair and sadness. “Aye. I have two sisters there whom I’ve supported for some time. The eldest is a widow with two young boys. They depend on me—but of course, I’m thankful I can help. When our father died three years ago and left us all alone—but forgive me, I don’t wish to bore you with such pitiful recollections.”
At Beauly, there were seldom any women of Sorcha’s own station and education to help pass the days. True, she kept busy as chatelaine of the manor house, but it had been a lonely task these past five years since her husband’s death.
“I’m not bored at all, I’ve often wondered about you.” Sorcha’s husky voice was friendly and encouraging. “I’ll not pry, but never think I’m not interested.”
Dallas warmed to her tale. “We were almost starving, the boys so thin and peaked, my younger sister, Tarrill, broken-hearted after being jilted by a young man who felt she was beneath him. Then one night I was almost raped by some drunken youths and Iain happened to come by. It was the Lord’s own doing, I’ve always been convinced of that ....”
Sorcha listened raptly as Dallas spun out her story. She never lied, but she omitted some rather pertinent facts, such as attempting to blackmail Fraser into marriage and their peculiar matrimonial bargain. But later she got to the difficult part: Dare she tell Sorcha the truth about John Hamilton and risk alienating her? Better now than later, after she’d won the older woman’s trust.
“At the time, it didn’t seem so wrong,” Dallas said, all pretense now gone. “Iain had left me and the babe, and even though his reasons may have been faultless, I couldn’t see that then. John had loved me for a long time. He’s a truly fine man and wished to marry me. It was wrong, but it happened. I never considered how Iain would react. In fact, I’d begun to believe that he wouldn’t even care.” Dallas was no longer acting but speaking from the heart. Sorcha sensed as much and felt greatly moved by the other woman’s experiences. Though she loved and admired Iain, she knew his faults. He was basically a just man, but capable of great rashness and incalculable obstinacy. And as far as Sorcha knew, he had never been in love in his life—unless with this tumble-haired creature of Cameron ancestry.
“ ’Twas a serious sin,” Sorcha replied somewhat stiltedly. She rose to pull the heavy drapes, shutting out the bright afternoon sun. The storm had passed over during the night, blowing out to sea. “While I understand Iain’s wrath, I sympathize with your dilemma.” Sorcha stood thoughtfully with one hand on the bedpost. “Such irony, his own mother sinned in the same way.”
Dallas fell back among the pillows. “True. Sorcha,” she said, relying on instinct, “may I stay a few days? I can’t leave my babe just yet. God only knows when I’ll see him again.”
The decision was difficult for Sorcha. Though Iain was several years her junior, she had deferred to him since he had reached manhood. He was not due to return to Beauly until midautumn. It was now the first day of September, so if Dallas stayed a fortnight or so, she’d be gone before he came back. But he’d find out she’d been there; would he be infuriated if Sorcha let Dallas stay on? Or would he come back at all—there was always that terrifying question whenever Iain went to sea.
“I can’t refuse you,” she answered, squeezing Dallas’s hand. Besides, she reasoned, Iain had only insisted that Dallas not take the babe away from Beauly …
From that point on, Dallas began to hone her scheme for getting Magnus out of Beauly Manor. The wet nurse would have to be taken along, either by bribery or force. Chisholm and MacPherson would act as Dallas’s accomplices. They would leave by night, some time within the next two weeks before the weather began to turn foul. If Sorcha retained any suspicions, they would be put to rest by then.
The stables were close to the house, Dallas noted as she strolled the grounds one bright late summer day with just the faintest whiff of autumn damp in the air. As far as Dallas could tell, there were only about a dozen servants at the manor house.
Chisholm and MacPherson were out by the kennels, playing with some of the collie pups. Dallas decided this was as good a time as any to approach Hamilton’s men and broach her plan to them. She assumed they’d be willing to join her.
But they were not.
Chisholm, in particular, was dismayed by the suggestion. “Mother you may be, my lady, but as a Highlander, I’d never take it upon myself to help steal a Fraser bairn from a Fraser house.”
Dallas was momentarily nonplussed. “Don’t be daft, man. My husband stole my babe from me in your own master’s house!”
But Chisholm shook his head and MacPherson backed him up. “That was different. See here,” Chisholm went on kindly but firmly, “I would not speak out of place, but we know how it was at Strathmuir. Lord Hamilton is always honest with those who serve him. You want your bairn—and your lord. If you take the son, you’ll never win back the sire.”
One of the dogs began to bark, setting off several others. Dallas stalked off several paces, the better to think. She was not used to the Highland code, sometimes it seemed as foreign as the ways of Araby. But most of all, it was Chisholm’s words about Fraser which disturbed her. Hamilton had known what she would try to do and had arranged to thwart her. Though he might be far off in Italy, and she in the furthest fastness of Scotland, it seemed to Dallas that his generous heart was still guiding her in some strange fashion.
And Hamilton was right, of course. If she disobeyed Fraser’s orders so blatantly, he would never forgive her. It would be better for both of them if she remained at Beauly until they could face each other and try to overcome the past. So she remained at the manor house, tending the babe, marveling at his efforts to crawl, delighting in his smile. Not mocking yet, she told herself with a pang, but oh, so heart-wrenchingly like his father.
She became familiar with the house and its surroundings. As much as Dallas loved city life, she found the comparative isolation a welcome retreat for her bruised heart and troubled mind. Her first impression of the Highlands, garnered under the threat of war and later blurred by Fraser’s near death at Corrichie Moor, were now somewhat altered. Yet though Dallas responded to the untamed majesty of her surroundings, she felt no sense of belonging as she did in Edinburgh.