by Mary Daheim
Or so he’d thought. Ironic, that Hamilton was probably mooning around some Roman villa, thinking about Dallas, too. Damn the wench, damn those brown eyes the color of a peaty burn at sunrise, the crazy, tangled hair that reminded him of a wild spring waterfall, the untamed yet calculating essence that combined the Highlander’s spirit with the Lowlander’s soul. Of all the women he’d ever met, only Dallas possessed such honest earthiness and mysterious femininity at the same time.
The morning breeze from the Bay of Naples made his shoulder throb. Sometimes he still thought he felt a twinge in his back from the thrust at Corrichie Moor. He thought of James then, and that he still had scores to settle with the Queen’s half-brother. But most of all, he thought of Dallas, the way she’d been in the little croft with her thick hair against his chest and the surprising skill she’d manifested in nursing him back to health. He remembered that night at Falkland, too, the look of wonder in her eyes as she waited for him to take possession of her body and the sumptuous feel of her flesh beneath his.
“Dammit,” he shouted as MacRae came up the stairway. “When can we sail from this pestilential place?”
MacRae paused on the top stair. “Within the week, sir, if the winds are favorable.” He eyed his scowling captain warily. “Shall I convey the orders to the crew?”
Fraser looked down into the street below, apparently absorbed in a fracas between two peddlers who were about to come to blows over whose mule cart had the right-of-way. “Aye,” he muttered, “we’re going home.”
By January, Sorcha’s earlier concern about Fraser’s safety had become an obsession shared by Dallas. Christmas had passed quietly at Beauly Manor, with a few Fraser kin trudging through the snow to share presents and the wassail bowl. Glennie had written to Dallas earlier in the month, urging her sister to come home.
Dallas wrote back, saying she could not—the roads weren’t fit for travel yet, the Hamilton retainers had been sent back long ago, and besides, she was waiting for her husband. No matter how infuriated he might be when he found her at Beauly Manor, she would face him.
At the beginning of the third week in January, visitors arrived at the manor house. The clatter of horses on the flagstone walk sent Dallas racing to the nursery window. Was Fraser home at last? But she did not recognize the three riders, and neither did Sorcha when she joined Dallas at the casement.
But after the two women had hurried downstairs, Dallas felt her heart turn over with apprehension. All three men wore the badge of Lennox, and instinctively, she knew her debt had come due.
Touching his cap, one of the men asked for Lady Fraser. Identifying herself, Dallas accepted a folded piece of thick parchment bearing the Lennox seal. “My lady,” the letter began, “I have been unable to write you until recently, not being apprised of your whereabouts for many weeks. I came to Scotland in September, while my wife, the Countess, remained in London. We were both most thankful that you reached your homeland without mishap, and many times gave heartfelt thanks to God that we were able to assist you during your time of trouble.” Dallas frowned at the wording, thinking how little the Lennoxes knew or pretended to know about her journey home, and how the earl had made sure that she was reminded of her great debt to them.
“As our son, Henry, is coming to Scotland for a visit, I fervently hope you will join me in making him welcome at court. The men I have sent with this humble correspondence will be honored to accompany you back to Edinburgh.” The earl’s firm signature was etched at the bottom of the page.
“Here,” Dallas said dully, handing the paper to Sorcha. “Read for yourself.” She eyed the three retainers with distaste. She didn’t doubt for a moment that they were instructed to use physical force, if necessary, to bring her back to Edinburgh. It was pointless for her to refuse; indeed, the Lennoxes had probably saved her life or at least spared her imprisonment in the Tower. Whatever scheme they were hatching involved high stakes, and if they wanted her help, she would have to go.
Not waiting until Sorcha finished the letter, Dallas announced that the men could bed down in the servants’ quarters for the night. “I will leave in the morning,” she said in a toneless voice, her thoughts back up in the nursery with the babe. Dallas did not look at Sorcha but went straight up the stairs to pack.
Magnus was trying to walk. He took two or three tentative steps before plopping down among the rushes. Dallas picked him up, trying not to hold him so tight that she frightened him. “Sweet bairn,” she murmured, “I’ll not leave you for long.” Magnus nuzzled her cheek and pulled at her hair, a favorite pastime of his.
“I don’t know how I’ll manage when you’re gone,” Sorcha was saying, wiping away her tears with a linen handkerchief. “You should wait awhile, the roads will be very difficult ....”
“We’ve been through all that,” Dallas reminded her. “If Lennox’s men could get here, I can get to Edinburgh. Oh, Sorcha, please don’t cry! I will be back, I promise!”
Dallas gave the babe a quick kiss and handed him over to Sorcha. The three Lennox servants stood stolidly in the hallway, apparently detached from the scene. Dallas gave Sorcha a brief hug, then turned away. “I’m ready,” she said and marched ahead of the men through the open doorway.
The following day Iain Fraser returned to Beauly Manor.
PART FOUR
Chapter 20
Along the slow, wintry route to Edinburgh, Dallas learned many things from the Lennox retainers. In November, James of Moray and Secretary Maitland had met at Berwick with Lord Randolph and the Earl of Bedford. The two Scots and their English counterparts had earnestly discussed the prospects of marriage between Mary Stuart and Rob Dudley, whom Elizabeth had recently named Earl of Leicester. The advancement in title was not sufficient to placate Queen Mary.
Meanwhile, negotiations for a Spanish marriage had foundered. The match was not quashed by Elizabeth or Philip, but by Queen Mary’s French uncles, who finally decided they opposed an alliance between their Scots niece and the power of Spain.
Into all this matrimonial intrigue and disappointment had ridden the Earl of Lennox, visiting Scotland for the first time in over twenty years. Observers were puzzled by his arrival but soon understood when his eligible young son was invited to join him.
Dallas remembered Darnley well. Petulant, spoiled, with a touch of spite, but maybe he had grown up. Queen Mary’s matrimonial ventures troubled her not a particle compared to her own.
Sorcha had boldly come out with the truth while Iain Fraser took his first meal inside Beauly Manor. Then she waited for his angry recriminations. But they never came.
“I should have known she’d come here, once she learned where I’d taken the bairn,” Fraser said calmly. “I’m just surprised she didn’t try spiriting him away.”
“She’d no mind to disobey you, Iain,” Sorcha asserted, thinking he seemed very subdued since his arrival.
He gave her a hint of the familiar twisted grin. “I wonder.” Picking up a piece of mutton, he chewed thoughtfully. “She must have used everything but witchcraft to win you over, Sorcha. By God, I’m a bit amazed at that, too.”
“She’s a fine woman, Iain,” Sorcha said with unaccustomed spirit. “She told me everything, and I hold none of it against her.”
Fraser lifted a dark eyebrow at his cousin. “You don’t have to. She didn’t take holy vows to be faithful to you.”
“Oh? And your part of those vows was omitted?” Sorcha’s own silver brows raised and the cousins glared at each other over the trestle table.
“Sweet Christ,” Fraser said at last in low, angry tones, “I believe the wench has turned you against me!”
Sorcha made a supplicating gesture. “Nay, Iain, I care too deeply for you to let anyone do that! But I learned to care for her, too, and she’s suffered greatly at your hands, whether it was your fault or not. Dallas loves you very much.”
He wiped his hands with a napkin and threw it onto the table. “I have thought much about her while I was awa
y,” he said, the anger subsiding. “I considered what she’d do, I thought she might stay with Hamilton, but he has gone to live abroad.”
Sorcha’s unaccustomed assertiveness had unnerved her. To cover her emotions, she began scraping their plates and fussing with the cutlery. “A sorry state for everyone,” she murmured, dropping a fork among the rushes. As she stooped to retrieve it, she suddenly remembered Father Beathan’s visit.
Fraser heard her out with rapt attention. When she said that the priest had actually known his father’s identity, his whole body tensed, one hand on her arm. “Is he still at the priory? Are you sure he heard the name only in confession?”
Sadly, Sorcha shook her head. “He died in November, just as he foretold. That secret went with him to the grave. Yet you know the name, Dallas told me so.”
Fraser leaned back again. “Aye, but without proof or witnesses, it does me no good. Nor can I tell you who he was. I could not tell Dallas, either.”
“I understand that. I’m not sure why that must be so, but I won’t pry. Father Beathan mentioned two amulets,” Sorcha went on, hoping that news might somehow help. Fraser listened closely but shook his head when his cousin finished her tale.
“Daniel Cameron said nothing about the amulets.” Fraser paused, the dark brows drawn close together. “Perhaps he would have done so—if he had had more time—or strength.”
“Yet both must be somewhere,” Sorcha pointed out. “Daniel Cameron took the one which belonged to your father—your mother must have kept the other.”
Fraser gave a brief shake of his head. “No, the Camerons would have taken both of them had they been in the house at Strath Farrar. And I didn’t even know about the one which was there until that old thieving Griogair Cameron told me.”
Sorcha put her long, slim hand across the table and touched her cousin’s fingers gently. “Do you know what I think, Iain? I would wager that your mother—for whatever reason—entrusted that other amulet to Moireach.”
Fraser patted Sorcha’s hand absently. “Perhaps. She certainly wouldn’t have given it to her husband. It’s possible that she gave it to the sisters who had cared for her at the convent but I doubt it. She would have been able to give them money instead. And somehow, though I never knew her, I can’t envision my mother giving her lover’s gift away in recompense for anything.”
“I did know her—and you’re right.” Sorcha was silent for a moment, then shook her head and sighed. “I still think Moireach must have taken it with her.”
“Which does me no good since no one knows what became of her. I’ve made inquiries, you know. They’ve led me nowhere.”
Sorcha regarded her cousin with mingled compassion and affection. She knew more than anyone how much his lands at Beauly meant to him. And how ironic that though he now knew who his father was he could neither share that knowledge nor use it to secure his future. “Iain,” she said in a quiet, almost diffident voice, “can I fetch you wine, a sweet?”
But Fraser was on his feet. “No,” he answered, “I want to see my son.”
Since Lord Darnley had not yet arrived in Scotland when Dallas got to Edinburgh the first week of February, she insisted upon visiting her sisters before going to court. She arrived in time to see Walter Ramsay kissing Glennie good-bye. They were to be married in April, just after Easter. Dallas hugged Glennie, kissed Walter’s cheek, and joined in Tarrill’s congratulations.
The sisters’ reunion lasted just four days but gave Dallas sufficient time to catch up on the wedding plans and the local gossip. When Tarrill told her that John Hamilton had sailed for Italy at the end of autumn, Dallas felt a deep sense of loss matched by a faint pang of relief.
On her last day at home, Dallas spent a few hours shopping, hoping the venture would take her mind off her troubles. She had bought virtually nothing in months and couldn’t possibly appear at court in her outmoded wardrobe. During her absence from Edinburgh, Cummings had sent the monthly allowance to Glennie and Tarrill. Dallas jammed her share into a beaded pouch and set off to plunder the High Street.
In the Upper Bow, Dallas found several of the latest gowns from Paris; in the Lawnmarket she selected cloth for costumes of her own design; between the Bell-House and the Tron Church, she visited the hatmakers; by the time she reached Forrester’s Wynd, she’d run out of money to pay for the six pair of new shoes which had caught her fancy.
“I assume my credit is good,” she said with more confidence than she felt. Assured that it was, she sailed off to the leather craftsmen in Dalrymple’s Yard. At least, she thought with a small sense of satisfaction, the rest of the world still regarded her as Iain’s wife.
But the euphoria of acquiring new things faded when she reached Gosford’s Close. Iain Fraser’s town house loomed above her, the carved facade seeming to mock her as much as its owner ever did. What if Iain never came back? She started for the front stoop, stopped, and headed down the nearest wynd. She’d walk off her fears, as she had done so often in the past.
Dallas wandered the south side of the city for over an hour, through High School Wynd, past the old Dominican Monastery, beyond Kirk o’ Field. Stepping over puddles, horse dung and an occasional drift of melting snow, she avoided the impoverished neighborhoods near Horse Wynd and St. Peter’s Close, preferring instead to admire some of the fine tenements which belonged to Edinburgh’s wealthier citizens. One house in particular caught her eye, a timber-fronted stone structure she had always considered particularly elegant. Three large dormer windows were set off by scallop shell carvings, and the finely molded doors showed evidence of inspired workmanship.
One of the doors opened as Dallas was contemplating the double row of small windows along the first- and second- story galleries. Delphinia Douglas appeared, carrying a large ermine muff and a small monkey which was dressed in a miniature guardsman’s costume.
Dallas moved out of the way just as a coach drew up to the door. But she wasn’t quick enough to avoid Delphinia’s notice. “My lady Fraser,” Delphinia called in her rich voice, “your feet must be soaked, you’re standing in a pile of slush.”
“I didn’t know you lived here,” Dallas said, momentarily taken off-guard. “ ’Tis a handsome house.”
Delphinia paused to give instructions to her maid, who had appeared with several boxes and bundles. “Yes, I like it well,” she replied with a smirk. “It suits my needs when I’m not with the court. Naturally, being a widow, I could never afford such a place on my own, but—a friend helped me with the payments.” She gave Dallas a smug, self-satisfied look.
Dallas blinked hard but kept her outrage in check. “How good to know generous people,” she smiled. “I’ve just returned from spending the autumn at my husband’s home in the Highlands. Such a charming, snug little manor house, though I’d like to make some changes in the decor when next I visit there.”
The fine titian eyebrows lifted slightly. “Oh? You’ve seen your husband recently?”
Dallas had built the trap for herself. “Off and on,” she answered vaguely, then gestured towards Delphinia. “Oh, take care, I do believe that monkey is doing something nasty on your muff.” She nodded pleasantly to the other woman and tried to move with as much dignity as possible through the slushy street.
Mary Stuart received Dallas back at court warmly. The Queen was in good spirits, looking forward to Lord Darnley’s arrival. She was residing at Wemyss Castle, high above the Firth of Forth in Falkland. Only patches of snow remained on the ground and Mary was able to hunt on all but the most inclement days.
No mention was made to Dallas of either her husband or her son. She felt the curtain of discretion come down whenever her prolonged absence was alluded to, but was well aware that behind her back the courtiers whispered with avid curiosity.
The Earl of Lennox welcomed Dallas heartily. Her reaction was restrained, though she tried to conceal the resentment she felt over being separated from her child. When they were alone for a few moments while the other courtiers
pursued a six-point stag, Lennox came straight to the point: “The Queen is fond of you and thinks you have a fine mind,” he declared, fingering the row of lace at his wrist. “Like most ladies, she listens to her companions’ opinions, particularly when it comes to matters of the heart.”
“She might listen but then go her own way,” Dallas pointed out. “Indeed, she’s not had much opportunity to find out what her heart truly wants.”
Lennox nodded in agreement. “Exactly. That’s why I’m so pleased my son is coming here. He’s a handsome young man who can well please any lady. The Queen needs a suitor, why not our wellborn and courtly son?”
Dallas could think of a number of reasons why not, most particularly the spoiled petulance Darnley had often exhibited during her stay at Lennox House in London. Furthermore, he was almost four years younger than Mary. The Queen needed a man, not a boy. But Dallas made no comment.
“So, when he arrives, I trust you’ll speak well of him to the Queen. There may be many who will not—’tis natural enough, any prospective husband of Mary Stuart will have enemies. But if you would consent to help us make sure he gives a good impression, the countess and I will be most grateful.” Lennox smiled kindly enough, but the meaning in his words was unmistakable: You owe this to us. And to be fair, Dallas had to admit he was right.