by Mary Daheim
She straightened her hunting hat and nodded slowly. After all, it was up to Mary Stuart to choose her own husband. If Darnley proved unsuitable, surely the Queen would be wise enough to reject him. “I’ll do what I can, I promise you that.”
Lennox was well pleased. “As I told the countess before I left London, Lady Fraser will be one person we can count on in Scotland.”
At first glance, Dallas thought Henry Darnley had changed since she’d seen him last. The year-long interval had given him added confidence, the rough edges of his charm had smoothed over, and his very height seemed to add maturity. His good looks remained rather boyish but he was impeccably gallant, especially in the presence of the Queen.
And Mary Stuart responded like any love-starved young woman. She delighted in his excellent dancing, his expertise at the hunt, his flowery efforts at verse. The romantic mood of the court was heightened by preparations for Mary Livingstone’s marriage to Jon Sempill. The Queen was determined to make the nuptials as lavish as possible, and even insisted upon paying for the wedding gown and bridal banquet. Whatever time she spent away from Darnley, Mary devoted to preparing for her lady-in-waiting’s great day.
The court had returned to Holyrood, where Rizzio conducted rehearsals of the music for both the ceremony and the banquet. During the winter, he had taken over the post of Queen’s private secretary, a promotion which many begrudged him because of his foreign birth. Mary Stuart ignored the criticisms and continued to treat Rizzio with great affection.
“Davie,” she called to him as the courtiers sat listening to a boys’ choir go through a Latin hymn for the twentieth time, “mayhap you’ve scored the piece too low. They’re not basses like yourself, you know.”
Rizzio glowered in feigned exasperation. “They’re not singers either, I begin to think.” He raised his hand to the restless group of twelve-year-olds. “Now, think of the angels, of heavenly wings and golden-edged clouds!” Two boys sneezed, several scratched and all burst into full-throated if unsynchronized song.
Maitland shook his head at Mary Fleming. “A soloist might fare better,” he remarked. “By the time these boys learn the music, their voices will have changed.”
Mary Fleming tapped Maitland on the nose with her fan. “Now, William, you know that if anyone can make them sound well, it will be Davie.” Maitland gave Mary a besotted smile; the middle-aged, suave secretary of state’s infatuation with the ebullient, sparkling young lady-in-waiting had changed him considerably.
The twenty-second attempt sounded infinitely better. Mary Stuart was listening with approval when Jean Argyll rustled up to tap her on the shoulder. “Your Grace,” she whispered, “Baron Fraser awaits you in the audience chamber.”
The Queen’s face brightened. “Praise our Holy Mother! I thought he’d never come back!” She got up quickly, nodded for Rizzio to let the singing continue and hurried out of the gallery.
Dallas had overheard Jean’s words. She plied her fan rapidly. He was alive, he was safe, he was here. Relief, apprehension and elation flashed over her, making her knees feel weak. In spite of the cool March day, perspiration began to trickle down her brow. She eased away from the others to stand by a window, which she opened surreptitiously. She was reminded sharply of that other encounter at Falkland, when she and John Hamilton had watched Fraser make his entrance into the ballroom. But Hamilton wasn’t with her now, and Fraser did not return to the gallery with the Queen. She came back with Jean Argyll a half hour later, just as the rehearsal ended. Mary Stuart looked pleased and happy, pausing to exchange a few words with several courtiers who were obviously inquiring about Fraser. Dallas slipped out a side door, unnoticed and distraught.
The confrontation took place that evening at supper, a private party just off the Queen’s bedchamber. The Queen had not yet entered when Fraser arrived with Catherine Gordon on his arm. He greeted the four Marys, Jean Argyll, Patrick Ruthven, William Maitland, Jon Sempill, Robert Stuart and Lord Erskine, in turn. Dallas stood in a corner of the small narrow room, hoping she didn’t look as miserable as she felt.
Fraser appeared fit, tan and arrogant as ever. Or so it seemed to Dallas at first glance. But as he approached with Catherine clinging to his sleeve, she noticed the deeper lines in his face and the strain around his hazel eyes.
Her initial reaction was to bolt, to race from the room and hide somewhere in the deepest recesses of the palace. But she was trapped in the corner, knees weak as water, hands clenched so tightly that the gold and emerald wedding band cut into her flesh.
So absorbed was Dallas in her own anxiety, she did not notice that Fraser’s tension almost equaled her own. Indeed, for several seconds, it appeared he would not speak to her at all. The expression in his eyes was speculative, wary; then he stopped, regarding Dallas as if she were someone he had met but casually.
“So, my lady, you are at court again,” he said with studied nonchalance. “You’ve managed to flee the creditors of Edinburgh?”
Dallas was hardly in the mood for banter, especially when she observed the coldness of his eyes. “You’d have me attend the Queen in rags, sir?” she replied, surprised at the hollow sound of her own voice.
His gaze swept her from head to foot, not missing a detail of the crimson gown with its high-standing lace collar, the underskirt of black trimmed in gold thread and the white egret plumes in her hair. Mary Seton had told Dallas how comely she looked earlier in the evening, but the compliment had fallen on deaf ears.
Fraser, however, did not flatter or banter. “Nay, madame, I’d never want you to bring dishonor to someone you cared about.” He bowed formally, put an arm around Catherine’s shoulders and moved away just as the Queen arrived with Lord Darnley.
During the meal, Dallas picked at her food, veered between rage and despair, and tried to maintain some sort of civil conversation with Jon Sempill and Lord Erskine. Fraser, sitting between Catherine and Mary Beaton, seemed to be keeping both ladies highly entertained. Somewhere during the endless evening, Dallas realized that one place was vacant: James Stuart had not joined the royal party. Pox on James, Dallas thought venomously, pox on all of them—-Fraser was there ignoring Dallas, displaying a total indifference that was far worse than outright anger.
Throughout the next five days, the wedding preparations for Mary Livingstone and her Jon reached fever pitch. Later, Dallas wondered what she would have done if she’d not been so busy. She glimpsed her husband from time to time but never exchanged more than a curt nod. He was usually in the company of Catherine Gordon, the Queen, or one of the other court ladies.
It was bearable during the daylight hours of unceasing activity, but at night Dallas could hardly bring herself to blow out the last candle. She slept fitfully, suffered from nightmares she could never recall upon awakening, and wondered if it was really true that a person could die from a broken heart. But there had to be something she could do to resolve the situation. Was Fraser waiting for her to crawl to him and beg forgiveness? If necessary, she’d do it, but she held back, fearing blatant rejection and the shattering of her final, fragile hope.
Mary Livingstone and Jon Sempill were married in the Chapel Royal at Holyrood on March sixth. The radiant couple presided over a sumptuous banquet in the dining hall and no guest was merrier than the Queen of Scots. By contrast, Dallas sat glumly in her place between a Livingstone she’d never met before and Secretary Maitland. Fraser had partnered a series of women during the evening, and only because she refused to let him see how downcast she was did Dallas consent to dance at all.
Maitland was a more sensitive a man than most. Years of diplomacy, however, had schooled him in subtlety. “There are times like this when the future is all that matters,” he said during a pavane. “Mary and Jon can put the past behind them to start anew. They can forget all previous pain and unhappiness, if they try.”
Dallas executed a slow turn, then faced Maitland again. “Aye, they can. Some of us cannot.”
It was very late by th
e time the courtiers had made their raucous way to the bridal chamber. Wearily, Dallas broke away from the group as Mary Livingstone prepared to throw the bridal stocking to the eager unmarried ladies of the court. Dallas went alone to her room that until now had been shared with Mary Beaton. But tonight Mary had assumed the new bride’s duties with the Queen, and Dallas was grateful to be alone.
Lighting a taper by the dressing table, she began to take the pins from her hair. She stopped for a moment to stare at her own reflection: She looked tired, anxious, bereft of her usual vibrancy. This can’t go on, she thought savagely, or I’ll turn into a bitter old hag. Standing in deep thought for nearly five minutes, Dallas made her decision.
Taper in hand, she marched resolutely into the corridor. Snatches of laughter and talk could still be heard from various parts of the palace. At last she came upon a sleepy-eyed page, swallowed her pride and asked where Baron Fraser was quartered. The lad seemed puzzled at first, then gave her vague directions. Dallas decided she’d probably have to ask someone else the precise room, but at least she was headed towards the right part of the palace.
But she didn’t need to inquire again. No sooner had she crossed into the east wing than she heard Fraser’s laughter behind the door to her right. She paused as a woman’s voice echoed in response. Dallas rubbed at her forehead, started to turn away, tried to fight off the all-consuming rage which had begun to overtake her and then grabbed at the doorknob. She was too angry to be surprised when the door flew open.
Catherine Gordon was curled in Fraser’s arms on the bed. They were both bared to the waist and Catherine’s high, pointed breasts gleamed in the candlelight.
Fraser stared at Dallas. “It seems we should have locked the door, Cat. Our visitor forgot to knock.”
Catherine huddled against Fraser in a vain effort to hide her nakedness. Dallas had kicked the door shut behind her, set the taper down, and stood with her hands on her hips, the dark eyes blazing. “You dared revile me for what I did! You dared to shame me, to take away our bairn!” Something glinted on the dresser next to Dallas. It was Fraser’s dirk. She grasped it in her hand, advancing upon the entwined couple. “You dared attack John Hamilton!” Catherine cringed and averted her face from Dallas’s wrath.
“Dallas, would you mind putting the dirk down and leaving peaceably?” Fraser said in a tightly controlled voice. “You can’t seriously equate your infidelities with mine. Nor, I might add, is this the place to do it.”
“And why not?” Dallas demanded, heedless of the menace in Fraser’s eyes. “It seems the most likely place to me, under the circumstances.”
Fraser had carefully disengaged himself from Catherine’s arms. He stood up, moving slowly towards Dallas. “Nay, Dallas, it’s not the same, a woman can’t behave as a man, it’s not like that, you know.”
But Dallas wasn’t being diverted by words. She moved in a flash to the bed, grabbing Catherine by the arm. The dirk glinted against Catherine’s bare breast. “You tried to kill John, why shouldn’t I do the same with your whore?” Catherine had begun to whimper, struggling to pull away from Dallas’s viselike grip, and beseeching Fraser to help her.
“You couldn’t kill anybody if you tried,” Fraser said reasonably, trying to keep control of himself and the situation. “You couldn’t even bear watching the deer drive at ....’’ The astonishing quickness of his fist caught Dallas completely by surprise. One second she had been standing with the dirk poised against Catherine’s flesh, the next thing she knew she was lying on the floor with a viciously throbbing jaw. Catherine was gone and Fraser was standing over her, toying idly with the dirk.
She tried to get to her feet, failed and then did something Fraser had never seen her do before: She began to weep, in great convulsive sobs that wracked her entire body. Fraser frowned, fingered the dirk, and placed it back on the dresser. He watched Dallas as if hypnotized, but when the sobbing showed signs of turning into hysteria, he dropped down on one knee beside her.
“Stop it, lassie, or I’ll have to hit you again!” He shook her, none too gently, and waited until the sobs began to subside into gulps. Finally, she pulled herself up, just enough so that her head was resting against his knee.
Fraser wrestled with his own special demons: This was the moment he’d been waiting for, ever since that fearful day at Strathmuir House almost precisely one year ago. For months, he’d postponed the inevitable confrontation by staying as far away from Dallas as possible. But finally, that morning in Naples, he’d known he could no longer put off making his choice. The next move was his, and he knew that it would either salvage or destroy their life together.
His hand came down to touch her hair. “Dammit, Dallas, why did you bed with Hamilton?”
Dallas could not look up at him. One shaking hand brushed at her tears, the other clutched at his leg for support. “I thought you’d abandoned me—and our bairn.” She swallowed hard, trying to steady her voice. “I heard you were in Edinburgh, carrying on as if you had no wife or child. There was no word from you, nothing at all.”
He put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into a less awkward position next to him on the floor. Cupping her chin in his hand, he forced Dallas to look at him. “I didn’t know you were in London until I was aboard the Richezza. We turned back but Elizabeth had sent a company of men and a ship as well. I had no choice, short of suicide, but to sail north. As soon as I reached Scotland, I sent my men to bring you home, but they were attacked shortly after crossing the border.”
Dallas shielded her eyes with her hand. Though only two candles burned in the room, it seemed unbearably bright. “I never knew what happened to you after you got out of the Tower—so little news reached Chelsea where the Lennoxes had sent me. Oh, Jesu, if I’d known then that you ....” She began to sob again, burying her head against his chest.
“Neither of us knew much of the other,” Fraser said grimly, “in many ways.” He felt the warm tears against his bare flesh and absently stroked her hair. Distraught and disheveled as she was, he was reminded of the night they had met. He’d rescued her then, and in a sense he could rescue her now. For Fraser realized he had the power to destroy Dallas, as surely as he could have killed her with his dirk at Strathmuir. By denying his love for her, he would crush the bright side of her spirit and cast her back into the lonely, isolated abyss she’d dug for herself before their marriage. Fraser had helped her climb up out into the light of love. But by opening her heart, he’d awakened her body—and it had betrayed them both.
“We’ll not speak of blame or guilt,” he said quietly as Dallas’s sobs began to subside again. “Whatever we’ve done to each other, we’re still husband and wife, bound now by our child.”
Jaw aching, eyes burning, utterly depleted by emotion, Dallas drooped against Fraser. “I love you, I never stopped loving you even when I ....” Her voice broke, one limp hand trailing aimlessly down Fraser’s bare arm. The taper she had brought with her guttered out on the table; the lone candle by the bed was almost burned down. For a long time they sat in silence on the floor, Dallas’s head on Fraser’s chest, his arms supporting her body. Somehow, they would survive the dark night together.
Later, when the guards drowsed at their posts and the other palace inhabitants slept, Fraser carried Dallas to the bed. He was not sure he wanted to make love to her, he was almost afraid of how he’d react, knowing that Hamilton now knew her body as intimately as he did.
But the slit of moon which had risen over the Firth cast Dallas’s face in a faint, ghostly light. The dark eyes were so sad, the expression so forlorn, the yearning for him so open. And, with an unaccustomed pang of conscience, he remembered how he’d been about to take Catherine Gordon just a few short hours before in this same bed. Catherine was sweet, she was willing, she fancied herself in love with him—but Fraser couldn’t imagine her going from the High Street to the Canongate to help him, much less to London or Corrichie Moor as Dallas had done.
Fraser pulled Dall
as close into his arms and kissed the cheek that wasn’t bruised. “Oh, lassie,” he murmured into her ear, “you’ve walked all over my heart with those little feet of yours.”
“My feet belong to you, all of me is yours,” Dallas said on a shadowy breath. “Love me, Iain, as you did before.”
Their profiles almost met against the pillow. “Not as before, it can’t be the same. But I love you nonetheless.” Fraser buried his face in the curve of her throat and tried to blot out the mental images of Dallas and John Hamilton together.
Dallas, however, was thinking only of Fraser and how very long it had been since she’d held him in her arms. More than a year and a half of lonely, aching anxiety had dragged by; despite his words of reassurance, could she still stir his senses?
But Fraser was already unfastening her dark green court dress. Dallas moved so that he could reach the hooks more easily. Yet she noted that the usual intensity seemed absent from his manner and as much as she yearned for him, her own emotions were too drained to permit any show of aggression.
When they were finally undressed, Fraser’s eyes scrutinized Dallas in the faint moonlight. “Childbearing has only enhanced you,” he said in an oddly wistful voice.
His remark could not help but bring back the memory of those terrible months waiting for the babe and waiting for him. Dallas shuddered slightly as Fraser leaned down to kiss her mouth. “We’ll talk about what happened to you in London—later.” He kissed her again and this time Dallas did feel a hint of the old intensity. Then his lips moved down to the valley between her breasts while his fingers circled her nipples. Despite her physical and mental exhaustion, Dallas drew her legs up and wrapped them around Fraser’s thighs. He began to kiss her breasts and one hand cupped the crown of her womanhood.