by Mary Daheim
Hamilton was rearranging the gold chain which gleamed against the deep purple of his doublet. “I’m afraid so, probably before the week is out. It seems,” he went on, casting an all-knowing glance at Dallas, “there is no other choice.”
He knows, she thought, and looked away for a moment, apparently scrutinizing a bowl of dahlias which had begun to wilt in the heat of the August afternoon. “I’ve never wished any man dead, yet sometimes when I think of all that James has put us through ....” She made an outflung, hopeless gesture with her hands. “Oh, fie, John, what’s the use? Iain could have killed him like a cat gobbling up a mouse. But he didn’t.”
Hamilton moved towards Dallas and took her hands in his. His brown eyes were solemn and his voice was so low and intense that it seemed to vibrate the very walls of Gordon’s sitting room. “You have my word, Dallas, as your friend and as a Hamilton that there will come a time when James will trouble you no more.”
Her big eyes conveyed both shock and fear. “Nay, John, I told you once before you mustn’t ever do anything on my—on our—account which would endanger you.”
His grip on her hands grew tighter. “I’ll do what I must. I’ll take my time, I always do—for better or for worse.” Hamilton’s smile was tinged with irony. Dallas would have argued with him further but Iain Fraser came into the room before she could speak.
If he was upset to find Hamilton holding his wife’s hands, he gave no sign. Fraser greeted the other man with a clap on the shoulder, kissed Dallas on the cheek, and called to Cummings to fetch some of Gordon’s best whiskey.
“I hate to refuse a good drink,” Hamilton said with a smile, “but I must be going. Greet George and my sister, Anne, for me.” He shook Fraser’s hand, wished him good fortune, and then turned back to Dallas. There was an awkward silence as they faced each other with a bemused Fraser looking on. Then Dallas reached out and embraced Hamilton tightly. They clung to each other for several moments until the sound of Fraser pushing at the Spanish chair with his foot jarred them apart.
Hamilton did his best to appear composed. “God willing, you’ll visit Edinburgh some day,” he said, moving towards the door.
“It’s possible,” Fraser answered noncommittally. “Meanwhile, come to Inverness. The stag hunting is plentiful and the fishing is superb.”
Hamilton paused on the threshold, one hand on his hip. “Aye,” he replied, grinning at Fraser and casting a quick glance at Dallas, “I’d enjoy such sport.” The Hamilton plaid swung from his broad shoulders as he turned away and walked out into the August sunshine.
It was six years to the very day that Mary Stuart had returned to Scotland.
Dallas and Fraser rode up to the building site on a clear, autumn day with the morning mist still clinging to the tall grass. The workmen were busy, putting the final touches on the native blue-grey stone walls. It would be a large house, but not, Dallas calculated, unmanageable. Fraser had gone over the drawings with her, pointing out the second story gallery, the new-fashioned perpendicular windows which would allow a maximum of light in the dreary Highland winters, and the various rooms which they would furnish together.
“It’s going to be beautiful,” Dallas said, careful not to stumble over a timber which had been discarded in the tall grass.
“I always wanted to build my own home up here,” he said, gazing off towards the heath-covered hills. “There will be a good view of the farmlands from this direction and you can see the river and Inverness itself from the back.”
“We’ll have to plot out the gardens before spring,” Dallas said, trying to envision how they might look. “I’d like a pond somewhere, maybe one of those Italian fountains ....”
But Fraser wasn’t listening. He looked from the unfinished house out to the fields and finally back to his wife. For a long time, he had perceived Scotland through his sovereign, seen his homeland embodied in the personage of Mary Stuart. How wrong he had been—this was Scotland, this land, the house, and most of all, his wife and children. A king’s son he might be, but he was still a Highlander. Fraser reached out and put an arm around Dallas’s shoulders.
“You like this place, lassie?” he asked, rubbing her little chin with his fist.
“I think so,” she said, lengthening her strides to keep pace with him. “It’s not Edinburgh, but,” she added, turning to look at his lean, dark face, “it is our home.”
“Aye, lassie,” he agreed, holding her close, “and we’ll call it Gosford’s End.”
* * *
Seattle native Mary Richardson Daheim lives three miles from the house where she was raised. From her dining nook she can see the maple tree in front of her childhood home. Mary isn’t one for change when it comes to geography. Upon getting her journalism degree from the University of Washington (she can see the campus from the dining nook, too), she went to work for a newspaper in Anacortes, Washington. Then, after her marriage to David Daheim, his first college teaching post was in Port Angeles where she became a reporter for the local daily. Both tours of small-town duty gave her the background for the Alpine/Emma Lord series.
Mary spent much of her non-fiction career in public relations (some would say PR is fiction, too). But ever since she learned how to read and write, Mary wanted to tell stories that could be put between book covers (e-readers were far into the future and if she hadn’t seen her daughter’s iPad, she might not know they exist). Thus, she began her publishing career with the first of seven historical romances before switching to mysteries in 1991. If Mary could do the math, she’d know how many books she’s published. Since she can’t, she estimates the total is at least 55.
At the time of her husband and mentor’s death in February 2010, David and Mary had been married for more than 43 years. They have three daughters, Barbara, Katherine and Magdalen, and two granddaughters, Maisy and Clara. They all live in Seattle, too. Those apples don’t move far from the tree…literally.
You can find Mary on the web at ; www.authormarydaheim.com