'You are good, Geordie."
"Good, no. But money I know how to use. It is my trade. And has its uses. But, again, there is much that money cannot do. And I think it makes me more enemies than friends "
"It frightens me," she said. "Your money."
"Why, child? Why-a God's name?"
"All those riches. You so rich a man. We, here, so poor. Not that I mind being poor. But, but..." She jerked away from him, abruptly. "And you are calling me child, again "
"I am sorry, Alison lass. A slip. I do not think of you as child, believe me—wholly as woman, now. Too much as woman, I fear!"
"Since I am a woman, how can that be? I sometimes think that you are afraid of me being woman grown, Geordie."
'Perhaps you are right," he said soberly.
Two small Primroses put a stop to this unprofitable conversation by appearing round the comer of the arbour, with smirks, to announce that their father was back from Dunfermline, and Alison had better come out of there if she did not want to be in trouble.
Guiltily Heriot started up—but it did not escape him that it was their father, with no mention of the mother, or stepmother, whose arrival was announced.
This was explained, very shortly thereafter, when Alison brought him to James Primrose and his second wife. Her father was a pink, pot-bellied, self-important little man, round-featured, purse-lipped and strutting—an unlikely sire for his daughter, indeed for his entire lively and uninhibited brood. Lady Burn-brae was small top, but thin, meek, apologetic and self-effacing. It was not to be supposed that her life was of the happiest in that household.
Primrose greeted his unexpected guest with an uneasy mixture of doubt and respect, indicating that he often had cause to hear of Master George Heriot; indeed in the Privy Council, they had had occasion to take note of certain of his activities. He paused, at that, and gave a penetrating stare, implying unspoken volumes. But he welcomed him under his poor roof—which might not be all that Jinglin' Geordie was used to these days, but was at least an honest man's house. If he had notified them of his coming, they might have been better prepared to entertain him suitably. The gudewife would do what she could—but his, of course was not a courtier's table. He himself had been away on important business at Dunfermline, it must be understood. Etcetera.
Lady Burnbrae scurried away in evident agitation, while the laird's eldest daughter eyed her father in a sort of amused exasperation.
The repast which followed was adequate enough, if plain and distinctly noisy. Primrose conversed solely with his guest, ignoring the presence of his family; and his lady, at the foot of the necessarily lengthy table, made no attempt to control the vociferous household. Heriot counted only sixteen of them, so presumably three were either dead or living elsewhere. Alison, every now and again, sought to quell the worst squabbling or other outbreaks of high spirits, but out of a sense of duty, it seemed, rather than any conviction. The visitor found it all rather amusing if somewhat distracting.
That is, until James Primrose, in his best pontifical Privy Council fashion, felt it incumbent on him to impress on his guest the importance of the day's visit to Dunfermline, where he had been to confer with the Chancellor, no less. This, he emphasised, was a frequent occurrence—the Chancellor, of course, acted chairman of the Council. But today's had been a rather special occasion—but very privy, of course. The laird pursed his lips still further, and nodded portentously.
When Heriot did not only forbear to press for details, but actually allowed himself to be entertained by ongoings further down the table, his host saw it as necessary to elaborate, and so to bring the other to a due recognition of the responsibilities and weighty issues resting on the shoulders of the Clerk of the Council. Logan of Restalrig had fairly recently died, it seemed, in drunken squalor and poverty in a house in Edinburgh's Canon-gate, and developments were coming to light such as to flutter many a doocot in Scotland, and outwith it
Heriot pricked up his ears, then. Logan of Restalrig he knew, as did most others, to have been an unscrupulous adventurer in a very big way, allegedly deeply involved in the notorious Gowrie Conspiracy of 1600, as well as in innumerable other unsavoury developments in Scotland over the last score of years. But Heriot knew also that he was a kinsman of the Master of Gray's, and had acted for that Machiavelli of Scottish politics on many an occasion. He had had to withdraw from public life rather hastily after the Gowrie business—but Fast Castle, his eagle's-nest of a stronghold on the Berwickshire cliffs, was sufficiently impregnable a refuge for even King James to give up the pursuit of winkling him out
"Died in poverty, you say? How can that be? He was ever a man of means, with large estates. And if Logan could not line his pockets in a long life time, no man could"
"Nevertheless, he died in poverty," the other insisted, at least gratified that he now had the visitor's full attention. "And has left debts. But not only debts, sir—problems. Many problems. And most delicate."
"Which concern the Chancellor and Privy Council ?"
"Just that. His papers are, h'm, highly dangerous. And some have already got into wrong hands. Wrong hands, sir."
"I see. Yes, I agree that if Logan of Restalrig kept papers, they might well prove awkward for some folk. But why the Privy Council?"
"Because, Master Heriot, certain members of the Council are much involved. Even His Grace the King ! And the Lord Home, who is one of Logan's heirs at law, a kinsman and a member of the Council, is for suing certain other members, who are, it seems, Logan's debtors. The Master of Gray, once a member, and also a kinsman, likewise."
"The Master does keep cropping up," Heriot observed. "A man of much initiative. And a friend of Fyvie's—or rather, Dunfermline's, the Chancellor!"
"Precisely, sir. But then, so are the Lord Balmerino and the Earl of Dunbar, the King's former and present Secretaries of State."
"And they come into it?"
"Unhappily, they do. The Earl of Dunbar it was—as Sir George Home of Manderston—who bought Fast Castle from Logan. Also Gunsgreen and Remington estates. And has not paid eighteen thousand merks of the purchase price. And Lord Balmerino, who as Secretary Elphinstone bought Restalrig itself, and still owes fifteen thousand merks."
"Whe-e-ew! I did not know that Logan had sold his estates. Why should he have done that ? A rich man ? "
"That interests the Privy Council, sir, likewise. For the Lord Home claims that Logan was forced to it by these two friends of the King. On pain of them divulging some informations against him. And that they then refused to pay most of the purchase moneys. Moreover, the King's own name is said to come into it. His Grace is said also to have received some of Logan's moneys. Lord Home and the Master of Gray have these papers, and wish f or... restitution"
Heriot was silent, as his mind sought to cope with all this, and all that it implied. Primrose glanced at him, almost anxiously.
"You do not believe me, sir? I assure you that it is absolute truth, and greatly distressing the Chancellor. Logan, it seems, left his papers in care of a notary in Eyemouth, near Fast Castle. One George Sprott And he has handed over some, at least, to Lord Home and the Master."
"I do not disbelieve you, sir. I but perceive that Scotland is in sore need of a strong hand to govern it—not an absent one, four hundred miles away in London "
"As to that, sir, I do believe that the King's accession to Elizabeth's throne was ... unfortunate. But my lord of Dunfermline is quite capable of governing the country, with the aid of the Secretary of State and the Privy Council. Quite capable, sir."
"I rejoice to hear it," Heriot shrugged. "The Earl of Orkney does not, by any chance, come into all this ?"
"The Earl of Orkney?" Startled, the little man stared at his guest, and then away. "The Earl of Orkney, sir—I cannot say aught of the Earl of Orkney. That is a, a different matter. My lips are sealed—sealed, do you hear? Moreover, the Earl of Orkney is the King's cousin."
"The King has a number of cousins I" Heriot mentioned
. "His grandsire, James the Fifth, being a very potent prince! I but wondered, since the Master of Gray was concerned, whether Orkney might not be also ? They are brothers-in-law."
"I can say nothing about the Earl of Orkney, Master Heriot," Primrose jerked, and pushed back his chair. "I ... I have no knowledge of his affairs."
His guest inclined his head—but looked keenly at the laird as he did so. The man was suddenly frightened. He had been eager enough to talk, before; had all but babbled, and of matters which some might have considered secret to the Privy Council. Orkney's name had changed all that Thoughtfully Heriot followed his host out to inspect the new dovecot being built, with its hundreds of stone nests.
Later that evening, with the children, even Alison banished to bed, and the diffident Lady Burnbrae retired also, Heriot was on his way upstairs likewise when James Primrose summoned him into the little withdrawing-room off the hall, where a log fire smouldered, convenient for the laird—who had contracted the unpleasant new West Indian habit of burning tobacco weed in a pipe and sucking the smoke—to light and relight the evidently not very combustible mixture.
"Master Heriot," he said, settling down, and puffing with considerable determination. "I presume that you have come to my house with the purpose of seeking from me my daughter Alison's hand in marriage ?"
Heriot swallowed audibly. "I. .. er . . . ah," he said. "Well, sir. I, see you—I am so very much older than she is ..."
"Yes, she is very young, sir; In my opinion, as yet too young to marry. Although a man of your mature years would no doubt make the best husband for her. I am prepared to consider it, sir. But not for a year or so."
"Indeed. Yes. I see. You will understand, Burnbrae, that I have not spoken of this. Said anything of the sort To Alison"
"Quite right Proper. As her father, I should expect you to approach me first Now—as to the matter of dowry. You will not be expecting any large sum, Master Heriot, I am sure? I am not a rich man. And have many daughters to provide for."
Distinctly bemused by his sudden translation towards marriage status and negotiation, Heriot wagged his head. "No, no. Of course not, sir. I had not thought of it The matter had not occurred to me."
"Aye. Well, then—no doubt we can come to a satisfactory arrangement" He pursed his lips. "I shall, of course, expect you to settle a substantial jointure upon my Alison, sir. A man in your situation could do no less. Substantial."
"Oh, quite. Quite."
"Have you any figure, or properties, in mind?" "Well, no. The fact is, sir, I have scarcely considered anything of the sort."
"But it is most necessary, Master Heriot You are a man of affairs, of means. These important matters must be given due thought, and dealt with in good time. Beforehand. A proper marriage settlement is the basis of every satisfactory match, none will deny."
The other opened his mouth to speak and thought better of it He drank a gulp of canary instead.
"Consider it well, then, my friend," Primrose went on, "so that I may draw up proper settlement papers, as is right and due. Meantime, sir, I drink to your betrothal." He raised bis tankard.
"You are, h'm, very kind. Very. Be assured, Burnbrae, that I shall give this matter much and suitable thought"
"Aye, do. Then I give you goodnight, sir. And shall look to see you my goodson" in a year or so. I hope that our association may be to our satisfaction and profit, aye profit, sir."
As George Heriot stumbled up the narrow, winding stairway to his lofty bedchamber under the roof, he had already begun the process of deep and extended thought. Indeed his contemplations extended far into the night, in that bed which was Alison's—of which he was much aware—his head seething, his doubts questioning, his judgment seesawing—but his heart singing.
* * *
In the morning, the man found himself loth to meet Alison's eye across the breakfast table. But the girl was her usual cheerful, laughing self, and no constraint was long possible. Certainly no serious discussion did or could take place in such circumstances and company. His host was silent, preoccupied, frowning, presumably ruminating on matters of state. Heriot contented himself with trivialities.
It seemed to be taken for granted by all concerned that the harvest leading-in process should continue at full strength—as indeed would be happening all over the land, with good weather therefor a by no means normal state of affairs. Heriot was far from averse to a day's hearty and healthy labour in the harvest field, in good company—especially when he realised that the laird, with a mind about such matters, would be otherwise engaged. In shirt and breeches, sleeves uprolled and hay-fork over shoulder, he sallied out with Alison and the rest of the Primrose clan, equipped with baskets of cold meats, pitchers of milk and flagons of homebrewed cider—and, in fact, thereafter enjoyed one of the happiest and most satisfying days of his life, a day of wholesome and essential physical effort, sunshine, laughter and companionship.
His back ached and his arms were limp before the end of it, and the sheaves grew heavier and heavier, but that was a small price to pay for those well-spent hours, hours wherein his mind quietly settled itself, and he came, without any cudgelling of wits, to see his way reasonably straight before him, his good way.
It was evening before he had a chance to be alone with Alison, when, shaking off the last of her ever-present family, the young woman led him, walking, down to the shore of the Forth. And now he found himself strangely reluctant to broach the subject which so closely affected them both. There was a risk, he felt, that it might alter, mar, the day's happy companionship.
It was the girl herself who brought it up, presently. "Geordie," she said, as they picked their way over the rounded pebbles of the beach, "last night my father packed me off to bed with the others, as though I had been a child. He does not usually do so. I took it that he wished to speak with you, alone. He has spoken openly to you, at the supper table, about his precious Privy Council affairs, caring for none of us. So it could not be that I wondered if it could be about me?" She wrinkled her nose. "If I had been sleeping in my own room, I would have crept down the stairs to listen at the door! But I was in a room with four of my sisters—and they would have come with me, you may be sure! Did he speak about me ?"
"He did, yes."
'To what purpose ?"
"He... ah... well, spoke of your future."
She drew a deep breath. "That is what I feared, Geordie—I do not know what he said—but I know my father. You are not to pay any heed to what he said, do you hear? He is a good man, but trying at times. And, and very full of himself. Forby, a lawyer—and he thinks like a lawyer! You are not to consider what he said about me and my, my future. You understand?"
"I am sorry about that, my dear" he told her, smiling a little. "For he told me much that was good to hear."
"He did? I can scarce believe that! Oh, he loves me well enough—but I swear that is not what he would tell you, of me. Did he, did he... ?"
"He did for me, lass, what I think I would never have had the courage and wit to decide for myself. He, h'm suggested that I should ask you to marry me. In a year or two's time."
They had both halted, there on the shingly beach, gazing at each other. The girl was absolutely silent—but her breathing was heightened, her lips parted, her eyes bright
"Well, my dear ?" he asked.
Still she stared at him A pink tongue-tip came out to moisten those lips. "You mean it?" she whispered.
"To be sure, I mean it. I mean it, I hope for it, I pray for it, lass."
"Oh, Geordie—at last. At last!" And she flung herself into his arms.
On the open shore they embraced, oblivious of who might be watching. It was some considerable time before anything like coherent and rational converse was resumed between them.
"I do not think ... I doubt whether ... it comes to me that you did not answer my question, young woman!" the man declared, at length, somewhat breathlessly. "I asked, you may recollect, whether you would marry me."
&nb
sp; 'Think you that I would say no, sir? When I have been seeking to bring you to the asking, this year and more! Never fear, I shall not let you go now that I have you I Now, or ever. I would wed you tomorrow, if I might "
"Scarce so soon, my love," Heriot demurred. 'Your father's condition of agreement is that we must wait a year or so. As indeed the wiser part of me accepts as best—the part I think with, not the part I feel with 1"
"Why?"
'Your father conceives you too young..."
'That again I Mercy—you men! You judge all by years and months. As though that was important. What do you know of women and how their age should be judged ?"
"I do not claim deep knowledge of your sex, no. But this I do know—that I was wed too young, before."
"Oh," she said. 'Yes, of course." That brought her up short. "I am sorry."
"No need to be. Christian and myself—Christian Marjoribanks =—were wed when she was little more than a child in years—and I, though turned twenty, was young, young. The match was arranged by my father and her guardian—for she was an orphan. We scarce knew each other. Nor ever did learn to know each other, properly, as we ought Perhaps I did not try sufficiently hard. If our marriage lacked much, the fault, no doubt, was mine—for she was fair and good and should have made what is called an excellent wife. But I was young. I thought that I knew all..."
"So that is why you were ever so concerned about my age—or lack of it, Geordie ? I understand now. But we are not all the same at similar years."
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