by Amanda Scott
“And ye’d ha’ tae explain tae her why he didna do that.”
Anne’s imagination boggled at producing the scene that would follow any such explanation.
“Ye fear she’d prefer tae marry her daughter tae the fiendish Eustace even if he’s no the rightful Ashkirk than tae marry her wi’ a man who’d been condemned tae life aboard a prison ship,” Maggie said, easily following her thoughts.
Anne regarded her narrowly. “What did he do to deserve such a sentence?”
“Nay, I canna tell ye that,” Maggie said. “Giving ye that information would be interfering for sure.”
“But I do not know how you can avoid that,” Anne said. “Is it not interfering merely to reveal your interest?”
“Aye, it is, so mayhap I should go.”
“No, not yet!” Thinking swiftly, Anne said, “Can you at least tell me what a man might do to deserve such a fate? I’ve thought of little else since I met him, and I cannot imagine him committing a crime evil enough to warrant such punishment.”
The thistledown shot into the air and drifted down again. When it had returned to its former place, Maggie said evenly, “Dinna ask such questions, for I canna answer them. Nor can I tell ye if the lad will be at yon wedding, because I canna predict the future. I only wish I could,” she added fervently.
Anne sighed. “If you cannot help me, I am at a standstill, for they would lock me up if they so much as suspected I might try to stop the wedding. Even if I wait to speak when the parson asks if anyone knows why they should not marry, Eustace or Olivia need only order me taken away, and the parson would just continue.”
“Could they get away wi’ that?”
“Yes, because most of the guests are their friends, not mine, and many are powerful men who would be happy to restrain a young woman who had clearly lost her senses. For so it would seem if I were to make such a spectacle of myself.”
“Who will be there?”
Anne shrugged. “Numerous Armstrongs, of course, because as you must know, that wild tribe counts the Carmichaels as their allies and has few scruples about anything. They have only to desire a thing to take it, only to disapprove of someone to destroy him. Scott of Buccleuch and Branxholme will be there, too, because his first wife was a Carmichael.”
“But she’s dead, and his second wife be nae connection.”
“If you know this already—”
“Pish tush, ye’re the one wha’ needs tae think out loud. Go on.”
“Well, they say that Buccleuch’s second wife, Janet Kerr of Ferniehirst, is proving tiresome and that he already has his eye on a new one called Janet Beaton. He would marry her instantly, they say, if he could arrange to do it legally.”
“Aye, and he’s gey powerful, is Buccleuch.”
“Yes, and like the Armstrongs, he would side with Eustace and Olivia. The present Lady Scott, on the other hand, might prove an ally for Fiona.”
“A verra dubious one,” Maggie pointed out.
With a sigh, Anne said, “Even if anyone should listen to me, no one would act in opposition to Aunt Olivia’s wishes, certainly not quickly enough to stop the wedding. The ceremony is quite short, you know.”
“Aye, ye’ve the right of it, I’m thinking, so it all depends on Sir Christopher—if he shows himself and if he chooses to speak up.”
“Can you not talk to him as you have to me?” Anne asked. But a gardener came around a turn in the path just then, and Maggie Malloch vanished. The bit of thistledown, reduced again to its normal size, drifted slowly to the ground.
“What d’ye think ye were a-doing, talking tae me lass like that?” Fergus demanded the instant Maggie had removed herself from Anne’s view.
Maggie had been aware of his presence while they talked, because he had been following Anne as usual, and had been bouncing up and down and flitting around, issuing protest after protest, all of which Maggie had easily ignored.
Now, however, she turned on him angrily. “I dinna answer tae ye, Fergus Fishbait, so if ye want tae continue speaking in me presence, have a care!”
“But ye’ve nae business—”
When his words ended abruptly and involuntarily in a high-pitched squeak, his eyes widened in horror, but Maggie said grimly, “Now mayhap ye’ll listen politely whilst I explain. Will ye listen, Fergus? Quietly?”
He nodded vigorously.
“I care only about finding my Claud,” she reminded him. “And though I ha’ sensed his presence in the area, I canna find him. We can watch these mortals all we like, but we’ll no learn enough just by watching, and since neither ye nor Catriona can make yourselves visible tae them—Here now, show yourself properly!”
He was nodding and shaking his head, so agitated that his figure kept disappearing. Hastily, he reformed himself but pointed to his mouth, his expression pleading with her to let him speak.
She flicked a finger. “D’ye mean ye can make them see ye?”
“I can,” he said, gasping.
“Och, aye, I remember now that ye bring it tae mind that the Ellyllon can show themselves occasionally, but ye canna make them hear ye speak, can ye?”
Fergus shook his head.
“Well, that may prove useful in the end, but I’m thinking I may want tae talk tae more mortals, too. We’ll see. I’ve fixed it so the lass will soon forget our talk, and I’m sure she kens nowt tae help us learn which one be melded wi’ Claud.”
“I tell ye, that be Eustace Chisholm,” Fergus insisted.
“Ah, bah,” Maggie snapped, silencing him again. But as she turned away, she remembered that Jonah’s last appearance had been just after Fergus had first made his suspicion of Eustace known to her. And at the time, Jonah had made a point of telling her that Fergus was not even warm. That, in itself, made her wonder if she might be wrong to dismiss Fergus’s suspicion.
Wondering if the little woman had ever been there at all or had simply been a figment of exhaustion and an overactive imagination, Anne walked back to the house, deciding unhappily that she would have to hold her tongue if Sir Christopher did not attend the wedding. Only then did she realize that she had not told him where the ceremony was to be held. Common sense stirred then, however. He would have no difficulty discovering that for himself if he desired to know.
In any event, she had tarried long enough, for Fiona would surely be awake, and would have begun the ritualistic dressing that tradition demanded of all brides. Having promised to help, Anne went at once to her cousin’s room, where she found something less than the mad bustle she had expected to find.
At first, she saw only Molly, smoothing out Fiona’s skyblue wedding dress, which lay on the high bed, because Fiona was having her bath behind a screen near the fireplace. Olivia had not yet arrived.
“Her ladyship sent word to advise her before Mistress Fiona begins to dress,” Molly said when Anne asked about her absence.
“I see,” Anne said, moving toward the bed.
From there, she could see Fiona in a deep, high-backed tub by the hearth where a fire fended off the chill and the screen shielded her from anyone in the doorway. Her golden hair was piled in soft curls atop her head, and the skin of her shoulders and breasts glowed rosily from the hot water. Thanks to the French soap she used and a bouquet of pink and white asters and pale blue rosemary in a jug on the table near the bed, the air was redolent of flowers.
Gesturing at the bouquet, Anne said, “You must have been up before I was, Fiona, if you gathered those for your bridal bouquet and chaplet.”
“I didn’t,” Fiona said. “I did not want to chance meeting him in the garden with no one else about, so Molly picked them and brought them to me. I did help to arrange them though,” she added.
Anne did not have to ask what she meant by “him,” nor was she superstitious enough to believe that Fiona’s failure to gather her own flowers would result in bad luck. Indeed, she believed that, unlikely as it was that Eustace would have risen any earlier than necessary, the only bad luck fo
r Fiona would have been if she had gone outside alone to find her flowers and had found him instead.
To her relief, her cousin did not seem inclined to further complaint, apparently taking interest only in her bath. Anne had feared another scene such as the one the previous day, and since she had thought of no way yet to stop the wedding, such a discussion would have been both fruitless and painful.
When Fiona said no more, Anne went quietly back to Molly. “Should you not be helping her?” she asked.
Molly shook her head. “She’s hardly spoken a word since she got up, but she did say she didna want me tae fuss over her. There will be enough o’ that presently, she said.”
“Yes, for more guests will be arriving soon,” Anne said. “Doubtless, many of the women want to take a part in her dressing.”
“Aye, and her ladyship must be growing impatient,” Molly said. “The ceremony willna begin for yet another two hours, but folks will fill the gardens near the chapel long afore that, I’d wager, tae watch for the bridal procession.”
“Then we should get her out of that tub,” Anne said. “She will be more comfortable in her shift than if they descend on her whilst she is still bathing.”
“I can hear you, you know,” Fiona said from behind the screen.
Anne smiled as she said, “Then it is fortunate we said nothing we did not want you to overhear. Are you ready for your towel?”
“Yes, please.”
“I’ll take it to her, Molly. Find someone to send to her ladyship, or go yourself, and tell her that Mistress Fiona will be ready in a few minutes to dress.”
Handing Fiona a large towel and then her soft cambric shift, Anne pulled a back stool near the fire and gestured for her to sit on it so she could brush her hair. However, she had done no more than remove the pins that held the soft curls atop Fiona’s head when the door opened and Olivia entered. Four other women followed her, chatting and laughing. They greeted Fiona and Anne cheerfully, but Olivia stopped a short distance from the door and looked critically around.
Instead of the stark black or deep purple she usually wore, she had framed her still lovely face with a white barbe and soft folds of a long, white silk veil that draped down her back to within a foot of the floor. To be sure, her ladyship’s gown was black, albeit fashionably cut, laden with expensive black Naples lace, and included a gold-link belt hung with golden trifles and a jeweled pomander.
Hoping to divert her from words of censure clearly hovering on her tongue, Anne said mildly, “I see you have decided to ease your mourning, madam.”
“Certainly not,” Olivia said. “Not on this of all occasions, when memories of my beloved Stephen fill every chamber. White is the color French royalty wears for mourning, you see, so it is entirely appropriate for an earl’s daughter.”
“It is a most elegant dress,” Anne agreed.
“Why have you not sent for someone to remove that tub?” Olivia asked. “It is very much in the way.”
“Molly will see to it,” Anne said, continuing to brush Fiona’s hair.
“But you are not dressed, Anne. How will you be ready in time? I expected you to attend to yourself before you came to help Fiona.”
Sensing Fiona’s increasing tension, Anne rested her free hand on her cousin’s shoulder as she said with a smile to Olivia, “I hate to think what you would have said had I spilled something on my gown or wrinkled it whilst helping her.”
“Oh, yes, only think how tedious that would be,” one of the other women said. “So likely, too, and doubtless a great stain right in the middle of the bodice.”
Glancing toward the voice, Anne recognized Lady Scott. She had met her before, more than once, because her husband, Buccleuch, was one of several powerful Border lords whom Armadale had exerted himself to know.
Changing the subject, Olivia drew a pair of gloves from a hidden pocket in her dress, saying abruptly, “Ashkirk has sent you these as his gift for your wedding, Fiona. Just look at the exquisite embroidery.”
The other women gathered around to admire the gloves, and although Fiona showed small interest in them, she responded politely to one comment and then to another. Seeing her thus satisfactorily occupied, Anne left her to the women’s care and hurried to her own bedchamber.
Peg Elliot was waiting, and with her help, Anne quickly changed from her ordinary day gown to a splendid one of rich emerald green velvet trimmed with gold-embroidered black bands. The black French hood that concealed her hair was similarly adorned, but its veil at the back softened its severity, being fashioned from the same green velvet as her gown. Bands and hood declared that she still grieved for her father, but Armadale had not approved of long mourning. In fact, he had not approved of mourning at all, saying it was just another fiendish whim of the Roman Kirk, in that august body’s determination to control every aspect of people’s lives.
“That gown becomes ye well, Mistress Anne,” Peg said. “The green makes your eyes look green, too.”
“I am glad you approve,” Anne said with a chuckle, “but you are the only one who will see me, Peg. Everyone else will have eyes only for my cousin, which is exactly as it should be.”
“Aye, she’s a lovely lass, is Mistress Fiona, and will make a splendid bride.”
“She must be ready by now,” Anne said. “I’d better go.” Still she hesitated. Time was too short. In less than an hour, the ceremony would be over.
Gently, Peg said, “It will be well, my lady. Things happen as they should.”
“Sometimes, Peg, but not always.” Nonetheless, she felt comforted, and her thoughts turned to Maggie Malloch who seemed even more of a dream creature than before. Although Maggie had said she would not meddle, perhaps she could still find a way to help. Deciding to hope for the best, Anne went to join the others.
As she expected, Fiona was nearly ready, and by the look of things, had resigned herself to her fate. She stood in the center of the room in the sky-blue gown, looking rich and elegant with her hair flowing down her back in soft curls to her hips. The darker-blue-and-white-ribbon points that connected her sleeves to her bodice, as well as others attached about her slender person, hung invitingly loose to serve as favors for male guests who would leap forward to snatch them from her the moment the ceremony ended.
Olivia greeted Anne’s return with relief. “Perhaps now that you are here at last, Fiona will don her veil and we can go downstairs,” she said. “Ashkirk must have departed for the chapel by now, and everyone else will be standing in the garden, watching for her arrival. Don’t muss her hair, Molly,” she added, as the maidservant moved to drape Fiona’s waist-length veil over her head.
Fergus flapped his hands wildly, so Maggie let him speak.
“The lass mustna cover her face,” he exclaimed. “Lady Anne will want that lad tae see how beautiful Mistress Fiona be—if our Catriona can just get him here.”
“Aye, he must certainly see her,” Maggie agreed, realizing she would have to wait at least until the festivities were over before she could satisfactorily discuss Jonah’s latest revelation with either Catriona or Fergus.
Anne suddenly realized that Fiona’s nearly opaque veil was a mistake.
Unlike Olivia’s, which merely framed her face, the many folds of sky-blue lace hid Fiona’s and hung to her waist, overpowering her slender figure. If Sir Christopher did chance to be in the garden, he would be far more likely to intervene if he saw how lovely she was. But instead of looking ethereally fair as usual, she looked rectangular and sky blue from top to toe.
Taking the plunge, she said quietly to Olivia, “That veil looks more cumbersome on her than I thought it would.”
“Anne is right, madam,” Lady Scott said, tilting her head to observe Fiona. “Such a lovely bride should not hide her beauty.”
Austerely, Olivia said, “I must say, although the custom of veiling has come into high favor of late, I agree that everyone would prefer to see Fiona. Take the veil off, Molly. She can wear the chaplet alone.”
“Slip your pattens on, my dear, and take care that you do not let your skirts touch the ground,” Olivia said. “You do not want to soil your hem.”
“I’ll be careful,” Fiona murmured. She did not look at Anne and was clearly maintaining her poise only with effort.
Brides were often interestingly pale, even scared, as Anne knew from what small experience she had of weddings. After all, most brides knew little of what lay ahead of them. Nevertheless, Fiona’s tense demeanor worried her.
Downstairs they found many others waiting to accompany the bride on her journey through the gardens to the chapel. Sir Toby stood with them, regally attired in a dark blue doublet, puffed hose slashed with white satin, and sporting a gold medallion on a chain around his neck. He was to serve as Fiona’s escort, and as they set off, the entourage was merry if the bride was not.
The ceremony itself would occur at the chapel door before the nuptial mass took place inside, because that was the tradition on both sides of the line for rich and poor alike. When Anne had asked Sir Toby if he knew why that was so, he had grinned in his usual impish way and said, “Sakes, lass, you cannot think the parson would commit the indecency o’ granting permission inside the church for a man and his woman to sleep together!”
She had chuckled, as he had clearly intended, but a memory stirred of Armadale telling someone he believed the tradition arose from nothing more complicated than folks’ desire to keep the Kirk out of their lives as long as possible.
Two little girls led the procession, strewing rosemary and flower petals from gilded baskets, followed by a boy carrying the rosemary- and ribbon-bedecked silver bridal cup from which the bride and groom would drink their communion wine at the nuptial mass, and Anne followed next as Fiona’s chief attendant. Fiona and Sir Toby walked behind her, followed by the rest of their entourage.
Many of the younger women wore sheaves of wheat in their hair to encourage fertility in the bride, or carried bouquets of roses and rosemary intermingled with wheat straws. Three minstrels strummed lutes near the chapel, their music filling the air as the procession approached the arched stone bridge.